Valley of the Night
by Darth Gilthoron
Summary: Dying, Valjean believed he would finally be at peace. But what appears to be Paradise at first soon turns out to be a place where the shadow is preparing for its final triumph, and only the path through tests and hardships leads to the light.
1. The Tigers come at Night

_**Title:** VALLEY OF THE NIGHT_

_**Fandom:** Les Mis (book with some musical influences), crossovered with Astrid Lindgren's Brothers Lionheart, some Tolkien influences_

_**Authors:** Dernhelm Wraithslayer and Darth Gilthoron (actual writers), Celebwen (co-author), Bea and Asharak (test readers and advisors)_

_**Genre:** Adventure/Fantasy_

_**Summary:** When dying, Valjean expected to go to the Garden of the Lord, where he would live again in freedom and peace. But what appears to be Paradise at first soon turns out to be a place where the shadow is preparing for its final triumph. As legends of an ancient evil walk the earth in flesh again, Enjolras and his friends must once more march to war for freedom, while Javert will yet have to find where his loyalty truly lies. And for Valjean, only the path through tests and hardships leads to the light._

_**Pairings:** not telling_

_**Rating:** PG-13 due to violence and some sexual content_

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**1. The Tigers come at Night**

The tiny flame flickered, and light and shadow shifted for a moment.

"He's dead." The man spoke harshly, crumpling the small strip of parchment in his hand.

"Then who sent it?" The second man was seated across the table, but now leaning over it towards the other and speaking in a hoarse whisper. Long strands of fair hair fell over a youthful, handsome face lying half in shadows.

Beside the one who had spoken first, another man held out his hand. At first it seemed that his neighbour would not react, but then he dropped the crumpled piece of parchment into the open palm. It rustled softly as the man unfolded it with one hand, using the other to put on a pair of glasses he had kept in his breast pocket. For a long moment he just stared at the message, squinted at the crammed letters in the dim light, holding it close to the candle, then he sighed and shook his head, shaking a few rebellious strands of dark hair out of his face. "I don't know the handwriting." Almost automatically, his eyes questioningly sought the fair-haired man's, and as the fair-haired one nodded, he crumpled the message again and rolled it to him across the table before he pocketed his glasses again. Then his hand thoughtlessly returned to his blue neckerchief, at which he had tugged earlier on already.

He had rolled the little ball well, for at first it travelled towards its destination smoothly, followed by many wary eyes, but then it met an irregularity in the rough dark wood, a place where a splinter had broken out of the surface, and its course was altered. In the darkest corner sat a dark-haired man with bronze-coloured skin and grim features. It was hard to tell when he was sitting, but it seemed that he was tall, taller than most of the others, if not the tallest of all. As the tiny ball suddenly came towards him, he held out his large hand –

Quickly the fair-haired one reached out across his neighbour, a lean, pale fellow with a stubbly chin about whom the most noteworthy feat was that he wore a small metal amulet around his neck on a leather cord, and snatched it up, pulling it towards him. For a moment his eyes met the tall man's, and the pale man between them held his breath, but then the one with the fair hair turned his head away decidedly. Nobody spoke.

Again the flame flickered. The candle had burned down to a disfigured stump, the light was close to dying.

"It is clear we have a friend in there somewhere, but we don't know who he is." The fair-haired one sighed, sorrow written clearly on his handsome features. The message remained in a fist clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened.

"Of what use is he, then?" the one with the blue neckerchief asked bitterly, his head in his hands.

"A friend is always of use." It was the man beside him, the one who had brought the message and spoken first. He seemed a little older than the others; his face was lined, and he had a large, dark scar on one cheek, one of the few places not covered by a dark beard flecked with grey.

"But now they know we had a spy," the fair-haired man put in, "he's in danger as well."

"How did they find out?" another of the assembled asked as the shadows danced once more.

"It doesn't say," the scarred man replied.

There were sighs from around the table, and some rested their faces in their hands.

"The doves!" the fair-haired one spoke up again. "The white doves! They're not common in the mountains. How long would it take them to notice them? And everybody knows doves can carry messages. All they had to do was shoot one of them down and check, and then they had the answer."

The scarred man nodded. "She's really missing a couple of doves."

"Then she should use other doves," the man with the blue neckerchief whispered urgently. "Grey ones, or brown ones, or whatever."

"She has no others," the scarred man reminded him. "Where to get them, how to train them so quickly? We must use what we have."

"Even if it is dangerous?"

"It's the only chance we have. Especially now, after what happened to Dolorin. You all know it. Vanished without a trace last night."

There was a moment of deep silence. Then a trepid voice spoke up from among the assembled, nothing more than a whisper. "Do you… do you believe he's still alive?"

The man with the scar did not reply immediately. "Who can tell?"

Another voice spoke from the shadows, toneless, almost inaudible, but in the silence of the room it seemed unnaturally loud, and it appeared that its echoes hung in the air long after the speaker had fallen silent. "Evil rules the night again."

The tall man in the corner had listened in without saying a word, his thin lips twisted by a contemptuous smile. His dark eyes oddly gleamed in the dying light. Then, suddenly, he reached out across the man between them, forced the fair-haired one's fingers apart and took the message from him. His skin seemed dark against the other's light one. Calmly he unrolled the strip of parchment, studied it for a while in the fading light and then pocketed it.

The fair-haired one's bright eyes flared up in anger, while indignation, fury and outrage chased each other across his features. But he did not speak. Nobody did.

And then, with a gentle hiss, almost like a sigh, the flame went out, and they all sat in darkness.


	2. Where Chains will never bind you

**2. Where Chains will never bind you**

The night was starless and very dark. Without doubt, in the gloom some mighty angel was standing, with outstretched wings, awaiting the soul.

Jean Valjean could not tell. All he knew was that he was floating in a star-strewn void, or maybe falling gently, he was not certain. But he was cradled in the arms of eternity, and he was not afraid.

How long he spent there he could not recall later on. There was no time anymore. The clock had stopped, its hands melting to stardust as the void gently consumed him, washing him clean of all he had known. What had just been before him receded into a distance, becoming a dim memory. It was still there clearly in his mind, but somehow the emotional connection was broken, as if a long time had passed in a moment. He was aware of who he was, of who he had been, and then again, he was not.

The clock was reset, ready to start anew.

And then Jean Valjean stepped out of the darkness into the sunlight.

Blinking like in a haze, he tried to take in his surroundings. It was bright, and it was warm, that much he understood. Then it dawned on him that he was standing in high grass. There was a tiny yellow flower just before his left foot. And a blue one a little further off. And a white one. And another yellow one.

Raising his head as his eyes followed the colourful flowers into a distance, he found that he had somehow arrived on a sunlit meadow, where it was sunk in a little so that it formed a small hollow. There were a few trees ahead, irregularly strewn over the ground that sloped slightly upwards. In one of them a small brown bird moved briefly, then disappeared again amid the green leaves.

Where was he?

For a moment a bee buzzed around his head before it continued on its way through the warm, fresh air.

Was this Paradise?

Funny, Valjean thought, it looks like any other pretty meadow. Pretty, yes, but still just a meadow with trees in it, and a couple of bushes.

But then again, the kind of splendour that came from Heaven was not the impressive, pompous kind most people on earth expected. It was the simple beauty that mattered.

And the gift to see beauty in something simple.

This was a beautiful place.

Valjean took a hesitant step, careful not to tread on the little flower before him. He did not feel weary anymore, but strong and very much alive.

He slowly walked up the slope, the grass rustling around his feet, until he came to what might be considered a ridge, where he stopped to take a look at this place he had come to. There was a forest ahead, tall trees standing close together, their light and dark crowns swaying gently in the light summer wind. Closer by, a brook ran through the grasslands, its clear water murmuring merrily.

Yes, there was such beauty in simple things.

For a moment he considered getting down on his knees to pray, but would not marvelling at the wonders of Paradise serve God better?

He was getting confused. Light-headed, perhaps. At the moment he felt as if he could have laughed for no reason at all.

The eternal joy of Paradise, it occurred to him. Heaven was a joyous place, after all.

He continued towards the brook, still treading carefully not to harm any flowers. It was wrong to destroy things of such a simple, serene beauty. Insects were buzzing peacefully around him, and occasionally there was the call of a bird, but apart from the rustling of the wind in the grass and the sound of flowing water, there was nothing to be heard.

No, there was something else, too. It came from some distance, and it was not very clear, but it seemed to be a high voice singing. A woman's voice, or a child's perhaps. As Valjean walked along the clear little river, it grew louder and louder, singing to a simple tune, though he could not make out the words. Then the brook made a little bend, and as Valjean climbed over the small hill beside it, passing a thicket of dog-roses, he could see a wooden bridge ahead, with a narrow, dusty path leading over it and then away around another small hill where the brook had eaten its way through, and on the bridge a boy was sitting with a fishing rod, singing at the top of his lungs.

"My fishing rod, my fishing rod,  
The fish won't bite and this is odd!  
I wish I had a rusty nail  
With which to catch a fat old snail.

My fishing rod, my fishing rod  
Is really such a rotten sod!  
I'd swap it for a bowl of snot,  
But then again, I'd rather not."

Valjean found himself smiling. Walking softly, his feet barely making a sound in the grass, he approached the child.

"My fishing rod, my fishing rod  
Is not what fat fish like a lot.  
I wish I had a bag of turnips –"

Here the boy broke off, looking up at Valjean and beaming, his brown eyes shining with a mischievous light. "Do you know any word that rhymes with turnips?"

Valjean considered this. "I'm afraid not," he answered.

"Pity," the child said lightly, hitting the planks beside him with his fist, but not seeming angry at all. "Well, doesn't matter. I don't care much for turnips, anyway. Especially not a bagful of them. The fish can have them, since they don't want the juicy wriggly worm on my fishing rod, ungrateful lot that they are. The fish can have all the turnips in the world, for all I care. It's a funny old world, don't you think?"

Surprised, all Valjean could do was shrug. This was an odd little boy. "Perhaps it is," he conceded. "But what would interest me more –"

"Fine," the boy grinned, not listening. "Then we are agreed. Sit with me, why don't you? I can see you're new here. Guess why? Because you're wearing utterly unfashionable clothes. I'd get some new ones, if I were you, or else the girls will laugh behind your back. And right before your nose, too. And to the left and the right of you and above you and below you…" The boy giggled, apparently amused at his own words. "I'd get some tight brown breeches, they're _very_ fashionable. And one of those short coats that leave your bum uncovered so you can happily flaunt it and look at yourself in mirrors. In the mirrors that go down far enough to include your bum, anyway. Or you could stand on a chair. I know someone who does that, or at least I think he does. It's so ridiculous. And a cap with a feather in it, that's good. Look, I've got one." Here he paused for a moment to pick up what had appeared to be a crumpled rag and now unfolded itself to reveal it really was a little brown cap, and with a small, dishevelled black feather in it. "It's no way as good as those others have, of course, but it's pretty good, don't you think? A friend made it for me. He gave me this fishing rod, too, and he actually caught me the worm, though the stupid fish won't take it, so he probably has no taste in worms. Well, I don't blame him. He can hit any target with a stone, though, and he can spit twice as far as I can, though he rarely does it, which is a shame really. I can spit pretty far, too, look." And he spat down into the water. "See? Can you spit at all? Well, never mind, you don't look the spitting type. Though you never know with people, right? People nowadays are so unpredictable, that's what I always say. People and fish, they're all the same. My name's Gavroche, by the way. And who are you?"

Valjean had followed the boy's incoherent little speech with some confusion as well as amusement. This child must have the smallest attention span possible, or he tried to voice all the thoughts in his head at once – or perhaps both. As the boy suddenly fell silent, it took Valjean a moment to realize it really was his turn to speak now. And the boy had asked him his name. What should he tell him? He did not want to lie to this child, this trusting little boy who beamed up at him so merrily, dangling his bare feet from the bridge. But on the other hand, he had lived a lifetime of caution, hiding his true identity, constantly fearing exposure –

No. God, no. Those times were over now, and forever. There was no hiding anymore, never again. "My name is Jean Valjean." Never had he felt so free when he said it; never had he liked this common, meaningless name as much as he suddenly did now.

"That's a funny name." The boy threw his fishing rod down on the planks beside him and got to his feet. "Pleased to meet you, Jean Valjean." And he took his hand and shook it forcefully, grinning broadly. Under his untidy light brown hair, his eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

Valjean smiled down at him good-naturedly. "Gavroche is a funny name, too. A funny name for a funny little boy."

"Little yourself!" the boy protested. "And what's so funny about me?" He looked down himself, from his red neckerchief over the embroidered little vest he wore unbuttoned above a rough linen shirt down to a baggy pair of brown trousers he had rolled up to his knees, waggling his toes experimentally, then curiously regarded the shape they had left in the dust of the narrow road.

After watching him for a moment, Valjean decided to seize the opportunity. "Could you perhaps tell me where we are, exactly?"

"Oh, on the cart road to Rosendale," Gavroche replied without looking up, drawing an odd flowery shape into the dust with the big toe of his right foot, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Rosendale?" Valjean repeated a little uncertainly. This was a name he had never heard before, and he had no idea where to place it.

"The village. Just a couple of minutes away. Depends on how fast you can walk, or saunter, or run, or skip, or dash, or hop on one leg, whatever pleases you most." Picking up a pebble between his toes, Gavroche lifted it up, then lifted his foot high enough to drop it into his own hand. He examined it critically, holding it between thumb and index finger and turning it around a little, then he carelessly flicked it into the brook, where it disappeared with a soft _plop_. "You can also walk on your hands, if you wish, only I haven't yet tried it out so I can't tell you if it takes long or not. But I intend to do so sometime – once I've learned to walk on my hands, that is."

"I see." By now Valjean had learned to filter the relevant information out of the boy's talk. "And what is the rest of this place called? I mean, where are we here?"

"On the cart road bridge," Gavroche said. "Duh."

"Look," Valjean repeated his question patiently, "what kind of place is this? Paradise, by any chance?"

"Oh, I don't think so," Gavroche said lightly. "Doesn't really look like it. I mean, they say in Paradise animals run around shaking hands with people, or people shaking paws with animals, and people all run around naked. Luckily, I haven't seen that here yet. Guess it would be a bit embarrassing. You pop out your head of the window in the morning and there's some naked bloke and your whole day is spoiled. I wouldn't want that." Then his grin broadened. "Though a bunch of naked women might be quite educational."

Valjean sighed. There was no point in explaining Paradise as described in the Bible to the boy; Gavroche would still find it funny. "No, what I mean is, am I dead?"

"No", the boy said decidedly. "Because you're talking to me. But if you insist, I can run down to the village and see if there's a coffin for you, and then you can play Talking Corpse all you like."

Getting anything useful out of this boy was hopeless, Valjean decided. But if there really was a village… "Say, if I want to get to this Rosendale, do I just follow the road?"

"If you find it funny, yes. Though I'd run through the meadows if I were you. There's an orchard you might like to see." Still grinning broadly, Gavroche winked at him. "Make sure you keep clear of its owner, though. Foul-tempered old bint, if you ask me. Can't take a joke." He shrugged. "Well, if you want to nick a couple of apples, don't let her catch you."

"I don't think so," Valjean said quickly. Wherever he was, he would not begin his existence here by stealing. "Well then, thank you."

"No, wait! I'm coming with you!" Picking up his fishing rod again, Gavroche rolled up the line, but left the worm on the hook where it was. "Maybe you'll catch me some ridiculous insect," he told it, then jammed his cap onto his head. "Right. Let's go. I wonder what I'd do with some ridiculous insect, though."

Valjean followed the boy along the road, leaving him to discuss the subjects of insects at some length. He did not really pay attention. The sky was bright and clear, and the air was fresh and warm, and birds were singing above him. At one side of the road the brook gurgled merrily before it took another turn and disappeared in the meadows, at the other one there was a field now, the golden corn standing high.

The dusty path was leading slightly upwards now. After what might have been a few minutes, they reached the top of another little hill, Gavroche still chattering merrily, and the village lay before them, thatched and tiled roofs and also such covered with straw among green tree crowns. There were about forty houses, Valjean estimated, most clustered together around what probably was a market square in the centre, but also some strewn out amid trees and fields, all the way to the borders of the forest, behind which mountains loomed up into the clear sky, thin white clouds woven around their peaks like strips of mist.

"Nice, isn't it?" Gavroche asked. "I've been here for some time, and it's a good place to be, both summer and winter. Before that, I used to live in a really big city, you probably can't imagine how big. Thousands and thousands and thousands of people, and not enough lodgings for all, and not enough to eat. I picked a bad lot in the food department, but I'm not complaining. Jolly good place, altogether. And exciting. You know," he continued as they followed the now gently descending road towards Rosendale, "we even had riots and stuff. Like small-scale wars. And boy, we had barricades. And what barricades they were! We fought like heroes, I swear. But then one got me, and here I am." He shrugged. "That's life to you. New environment to poke your nose around. And it's really not bad."

But Valjean was barely listening anymore. "You mentioned barricades..."

"Of course! Ever been at one?"

"Listen, are you a Parisian?"

"Blimey, yes!" Gavroche cried, scaring up a couple of birds who had been sitting peacefully in a tree. "And a rebel! Once we even had a proper revolution, I swear. And we had guns. Know what that is? It's really useful, it goes bang and there goes the bullet –"

"I know," Valjean interrupted. "I was there, too, at one of those barricades." Could it be that everybody came here after he had died?

"You were?" Gavroche jumped into the air and gave what might pass for a war cry. "That's grand! Hang on, now you say it, I think I remember you. Weren't you the bugger who turned up in a shiny uniform but didn't talk much? Yes? I knew it! And you had a big gun, too, didn't you?"

Maybe he had better kept quiet, Valjean thought, for now he had no idea how to calm down the boy, who was bouncing up and down with excitement, all insects forgotten. "And then I went and smashed some streetlights in the middle of the night," Gavroche continued breathlessly. "Isn't it great? And I ran along a street with a cart and made some horrible noise, but then they tried to catch me so I ran for it. Whee!" And he leaped up and punched the air with his fist. "They never caught me, I was just too fast."

Now this stirred a memory. "Were you sent to bring somebody a letter, perhaps? A young lady?" And even though it felt distant now, there still was a sense of pain at the thought, of loss… He had been forced to choose between Cosette's happiness and his own on that night. The choice had been painful, but somehow it had been easy. Because when he had considered it, there had been only one thing to do. His own happiness counted for nothing compared to Cosette's.

"Yes, and I got five francs for it, and this nice chap said I could smash the bloody lanterns all I liked –" Suddenly Gavroche broke off and stared up at Valjean hard, wrinkling his brow. His cheeks were somewhat grimy, Valjean noticed, as if they had been in contact with all the dust on the road a little too long. "Was that you, by any chance? Was that you, too?"

For a moment Valjean hesitated. "Yes, but that doesn't mean I like it when people smash things," he said at last. It had been a terrible night, with all the blood and death and despair…

"No need to worry. I'm rather happy here. I haven't yet felt the urge to smash anything." Gavroche kicked a stone that lay in his way and laughed with delight as it ricocheted off a low stone wall encircling a garden. "Here we are. Charming, don't you think?"

They had reached the outskirts of the village, framework farmhouses with sheds and stables around them. On a field of grass a group of brown cows stood, chewing lazily and occasionally flicking their tails to chase away the flies buzzing around them. Chicken clucked in the yards, and somewhere ahead a cockerel crowed.

They passed a house where two men sat by the entrance, dressed in clothes of simple brown, one sharpening a scythe with a whetstone while the other was scratching a shaggy dog's ears. Gavroche waved, and they waved back. "Where's your faithful sidekick?" one of them cried.

"Or rather, the one whose sidekick you are," the other peasant corrected, laughing.

"At the blacksmith's, I bet," Gavroche called back. "Working the bellows or something."

"Well, be sure to tell him there's been trouble with the folks from Lowford again, out on the fields, will you?"

"Right, I'll tell him. Whee, this is going to be fun!" Gavroche punched his palm with his fist, almost dropping his fishing rod. "Bloody Lowforders. In for a sound thrashing, if you ask me. Nothing serious, though." It sounded as if he regretted this fact. "It's pretty peaceful around here, one could almost grow fat and lazy just lying in the sun." But then he suddenly frowned. "There are rumours, though. Bad rumours. Something's brewing in the mountains, they say. Something bad. They say something's woken that's been sleeping for centuries and stuff, for long, anyway, something that should better have stayed where it was, wherever that was. They say when it wakes, then it brings… I don't know. Dark times. Evil times."

A sudden gust of cold wind swept along the cart road, whirling up dust and tearing at Valjean's hair. At once the sun seemed dimmed, as if something had passed over it…

"Whoo, spooky." Gavroche laughed, and the spell was broken. "There, look," he said, pointing backwards. "There's dark clouds coming. We'll have rain before noon, you mark my words. C'mon, let's get going again."

There was a low, narrow bridge ahead of them, at the side of the road, leading over a small, clear rivulet. Beside the bridge and over most of the road's width, its course was paved with cobblestones so that it formed a ford. While Valjean crossed the bridge, Gavroche plodded through the water happily, which only wetted half his calves, and then laughed at the wet footprints he left behind while his bare feet were soon dust-encrusted. "The best things in life are the little things," he said wisely. Then he grinned at an old woman sitting outside a house on a bench, stroking a cat while watching a couple of small children playing.

The houses stood more closely together now, and a couple of other roads met the one they were following. There were people about now, men and women, mostly in simple linen clothes, going about their work or just sitting in the sun chatting idly. Once a rider clattered past them, a man on a tall grey stallion dressed in tight-fitting blue breeches, a scarlet shirt and a pair of high white leather boots. Gavroche clicked his tongue at him irritably. "Show-off," he commented contemptuously. "Rides around on his horse like he's in a big hurry, but there's nothing behind it except he wants to show people he bought a new horse off some horse-dealer in one of the neighbouring villages. I bet he claims it came all the way from the Jade Sea, though. Stupid git."

Valjean frowned after the man, though not because of Gavroche's words, but because of the clothes the rider had been wearing. They had been… exotic. Like from medieval times, Valjean imagined, though he did not know much about medieval clothing, to be honest.

And Gavroche had wanted to explain to him what a gun was, he remembered. Now, in this context, it suddenly made sense. Wherever he was, he had come into a different time.

A happier time, perhaps? A happier place, though, certainly. Most of the people on the street were garbed in a simple manner, yet none of them wore rags, and none of them seemed to be starving. Most of them looked happy and content with their lives.

Perhaps this really was some kind of Paradise? He would have to ask someone, once he found someone who would not just laugh at the question.

"You might find a bunch of folks you're familiar with," Gavroche said just then. "I did, anyway. Can you see the big house ahead, where the road forks off? There, right at its end, close to the forest. I think we'll go there and poke our noses in for a moment, shall we? We'll go and visit some friends."


	3. We're still there

**3. We're still there**

The door creaked gently, then gave what sounded like a little whine as it was jerked open forcibly until it crashed against the wall. There was a soft rustling as a few flakes of plaster fell to the ground.

With a groan, Cédric Enjolras sat up and rubbed his eyes. He felt as if he had slept on a straw-filled mattress – which he had, he realized, since he was down in the hall and not up in his own room. He was sitting on one of the straw-filled old mattresses lining one side of the hall's length, without a pillow, but covered by a thin sheet with holes in it that was a rather sorry excuse for a blanket.

Curse you, Courfeyrac! It's all your fault.

"Well, well, well," came a cheerful voice from the hall's entrance. "What have we here? Still a sleepy-head when outside the sun's been up for ages? Get off your bum, Céd, rise and shine!"

"Bahorel," Enjolras groaned, "go back to bed."

"Back to bed? Are you crazy? Or rather bloody blind? Can't you see the light flooding this whole bloody room?" Bahorel laughed. "Had a rough night, did we, eh?"

Throwing back the old sheet, Enjolras clambered to his feet. "I came back late," he grumbled, "and Courfeyrac kicked me out. Had a girl in our room again and wanted to be alone."

Bahorel snorted with glee. "There's a good boy, old Fatty! Man, will you never get the hang of this?"

"No," Enjolras said simply, shaking his blond mane out of his eyes.

"Fine." Leaning against the doorpost with his shoulder, Bahorel still managed to shrug. "You don't know what you're missing, but have it your way."

It took a lot of self-control for Enjolras not to roll his eyes, and not only at realizing that he had slept in his clothes. Bahorel, you mindless, useless _ladies' man_!

He was being unfair, he knew, and being unfair was something he detested actually, but on the other hand, it was hard to be fair when woken up like that and finding oneself down in the hall and fully dressed, like Grantaire when he had been too drunk once again to find his way upstairs.

Besides, Bahorel really ran after every skirt – when he was not too occupied with spreading noise and chaos, that was.

"That's better," Bahorel stated as Enjolras came towards him, attempting to get some order into his blond mane. Bahorel's own hair, straight and of a glossy chestnut, was neatly slicked back as usually already, and he had picked one of his fancy vests to go with the surprisingly simple brown linen shirt and tight-fitting breeches. A new vest, Enjolras suspected. Yet another new vest. And it suspiciously looked like silk, fine red silk embroidered with gold and silver.

Oh, you vain cockerel!

"We'll be over at the inn," Bahorel said, throwing up a coin he had produced from the pouch at his belt and catching it again. "If you manage to get your lazy limbs together, feel free to join us."

"Who, we?" Enjolras asked, ignoring the taunt.

"Why, me and my bunch." Bahorel shrugged. "Joly and happy old Master Bossuet. Perhaps Feuilly, if he's finished shaving by now. Well then, o my Leader," here he offered his friend a mock salute, "I'll see you later some time."

"Don't get drunk, mind you!" Enjolras called after his retreating back. At least there had been no mention of Grantaire, which meant one drunkard less staggering back to their abode in broad daylight, and when Grantaire was not with them, they did not drink as much as they might otherwise, but still, he would not put it past them to empty a whole bottle of wine and have a tankard of beer each to go with it.

Yawning and stretching his arms over his hand, Enjolras left the hall and stepped out into the entrance room from where the stairs led upwards. Another door, closed now, hid the large stables, while the main door stood ajar, allowing bright sunlight to flood the floor. For a moment he hesitated, then he chose the way out, making another attempt at taming his hair with his fingers as he went.

The building he had left, what looked like a large old farmhouse, dark framework and a roof where thatch work had only very recently replaced straw, was joined to a large wooden barn, almost as high as the house and about as long, yet standing so that they formed a right angle together. Along with a hedge at the other side and a fence at the front, they formed a little dusty yard that was yet large enough to comfortably contain a well of stone, the water tinkling down merrily into the basin and flowing out through a drain again at its opposite end, down into a lower little basin, which was being used currently, and rather noisily.

"Good morning, Lamarque," Enjolras said, sitting down at the edge of the main basin, rolling up his sleeves and thrusting his arms up to the elbow into the cold water. It chilled him, but it was very refreshing.

The wolfhound lifted its head out of the basin, around the muzzle still dripping, and answered with a short bark and a friendly wag before it returned to the activity of slurping greedily.

Smiling, Enjolras splashed his face with cold water, then raked his fingers through his hair and tugged a few rebellious strands behind his ears. For now, it would have to do. They would surely have a bath in the pond before their midday meal, just as always, and then he could get properly washed.

The stable door opened, and out slunk a large, grey wolf, its tongue hanging out, its yellow eyes passing over Lamarque, then fixing Enjolras. Behind the tip of its tufted tail, another muzzle appeared, belonging to a smaller wolf of a darker fur colour, but with a white face.

Lamarque lifted his shaggy head and pricked up his ears, but made no sound, just watched the animals intently.

"Out with you!" a merry voice came from just behind the door. "Sheesh!" Another wolf appeared, a slender animal with a bronze shading in its grey fur, and behind it followed a young man with blond, lightly curled hair, laughing as he came. "Here we go, boys. Yes, there's a bunch of good doggies. Why, hello, Céd."

"Good morning," Enjolras replied. "Have they curled up in an empty box again?"

"You bet. And the horses are getting used to them, I hardly realized they were there until I looked inside. Now off with you, boys. Here, what are you looking at, furball? No! Come back here! Right now!" For the first wolf had, after some sniffling, decided to enter the house through the main door Enjolras had left open, and its darker companion trotted after it immediately.

Enjolras grinned. "That's what you get when you're famous for feeding any wildlife coming to our doorstep. Remember the stag last week?"

"God, yes." His friend laughed. "I just have a soft spot for anything furry, no matter what size. Right then, you too, boy. Your sausage. Hey there, Lamarque, come with your brothers."

"Half-brothers," Enjolras corrected. While the wolfhound's mother had been a farmer's sheepdog, his father probably belonged to the same pack as those three who had apparently slept in the stable – which was obvious, Enjolras noted, there was a little hay in the bronze-grey wolf's fur. It was a large pack, consisting of fifteen of more wolves, all half-tame and sometimes seen strolling through the village even in broad daylight. The local dogs had gotten used to them more or less, though they eyed them with suspicion, but the local hunters had immediately decided to put them to some use, and now the pack was used to drive the deer towards them, and in return the wolves got their share of the prey. It worked out well enough, and even the sheepherders had no more objections, though some had reinforced their fences or invested in another sheepdog.

And it was only natural, Enjolras reflected. Many ages ago, at the dawn of times, had the wolves not come out of the forests to hunt with mankind? And their descendants had never left them.

Just as it was natural that they would frequently come just here, since this farmhouse was closest to the forest… and since they knew there was someone here who would always give them a slice of ham or a bit of sausage. Jean Prouvaire – or Jehan, as his real name was, and as the others occasionally called him – would never turn away a child or an animal that came to his doorstep.

"Oh, there's just one thing I'd like you to know." The third wolf slipped in through the door, but Prouvaire did not mind it much. Instead he bowed down to scratch the wolfhound's ears. Of course, it was him who had brought Lamarque home, then still a small fuzzy thing with crumpled ears and the tiniest black nose imaginable. Lamarque was twice as large now, if not more, and still growing. "Little Eponine was there again, giving the horses water."

"Her?" Enjolras automatically turned to the stable door, as if expecting to see the girl's skinny shape there. "Is she gone again?"

Prouvaire nodded, frowning. "I brought her a bowl of milk, but she refused anything else. I must say that girl is worrying me. She lives nowhere really, just strays about. And she never tells anyone what she's up to."

She was a poor thing, that girl, and a bit funny in the head perhaps, as Courfeyrac put it, but they could not afford to have anyone spying on them, not in times like these. She needed to stay somewhere, to stop strolling about and remain in one place. Sometimes Enjolras wondered if he should find a way to make her, for her own good. They had tried, Prouvaire especially, but none of their attempts at making her stay had succeeded, no matter what comforts they'd offered her. Her refusals of food, clothes, and similar necessities baffled the young men to the point where they let her come and go as she pleased, accepting her company whenever she chose to grace them with it.

But it needed to change. It simply needed to. Especially in times like these.

Looking up to the sky's unblemished blue, he found it hard to believe what was brewing away in the mountains. But this was the way it was, the way of the world, of every world. Life was an eternal struggle, a never-ending war for justice. "One day," he told Prouvaire, who was just ushering Lamarque inside, "I'll take the girl and lock her in the house, just wait and see. So we can force some decent meals on her and keep her safe. And away from certain… influences."

"Right you are," Prouvaire agreed. "At least you know what you're at, with wolves. I mean, all you have to worry about with wolves is that they might decide to eat your sheep."

Sighing, Enjolras thrust his hands into his pockets. If it were up to him, he would have had the girl locked away long ago, with someone to keep an eye on her. But Orvar had been strictly against it, and it was still Orvar who decided on matters here.

But, curse him, he was too soft! Dolorin had been soft before him, but that an old warrior like Orvar would act like that… Enjolras had expected changes when Orvar had taken Dolorin's place after the latter's still unexplained disappearance, but for now, nothing had. Surely the girl did not plot anything bad, but she might well be a danger to the village as well as to herself. And she was not the only one worrying Enjolras. There was one even more dangerous, and one who was not naively innocent at the same time. No, he was the kind of man who would readily sell all their secrets to the enemy. Dark and grim, evil was practically written on his face, and still Orvar let him do as he pleased, openly scorning everyone and spreading the seed of hatred in the hearts of men…

"Hey! You!"

Raising his head, he saw Gavroche standing at the other side of the fence, grinning and waving, a fishing rod held over his shoulder, the line not quite rolled up. There was a worm still dangling at the hook. A little behind him stood a man Enjolras did not recognize. "No need to shout like that," he said. "What are you up to?"

"Taking my new friend for a walk," Gavroche beamed, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. "He thinks he's come to Paradise, which I can't quite show him, but I told him I can at least show him around in Rosendale. I bet that's better than Paradise, anyway."

Enjolras shrugged. Paradise? He did not believe in Paradise, just as he did not believe in God. Those were nothing but myths to keep the people content… and enslaved. What this place truly was he did not know, though he had wondered about it often enough, but he had come to the decision that it was a world like the one he had known before, wherever it was, a world that worked the same way as the old one. And he would continue here what he had begun in a different place. Once war broke out, he would be there to fight. It was his destiny to be a soldier in the legion of light, and never, neither in his former life nor in this, had he questioned it. It was who he was, and who he always would be.

Turning his gaze from the grinning boy, he subjected the stranger to a closer scrutiny. A new arrival, then, easy enough to tell from the shirt and trousers he wore, fashionable in the place where he had once dwelled himself, but not what was worn here. From time to time they turned up, men and women and sometimes children, confused and at a loss where they were, but they found their places here soon enough, and they stopped asking questions after some time. Sometimes they aged with the time, sometimes they did not, and sometimes they even grew younger, but normally they did not even question that. It was the way of this place, a man was as old as he felt, or at least this was the conclusion Enjolras himself had come to. Some of his friends, Combeferre and Prouvaire mainly, had given it all some thought, but he had decided that there were more important things, and had devoted his time to learning to handle bow and arrows and wield a sword instead. When the great battle came, he would be ready.

But this one… this one was somewhat odd. His age was hard to determine. While his hair and short beard were white as an old man's, his features appeared more or less youthful, and he walked upright and with an energetic bearing. He was not overly tall, just about average in height, yet of a squat, muscular stature.

Well, maybe this was a very light blond, yet to be honest, Enjolras did not quite believe that such a light shade of blond existed, not even when bleached long under the sun.

And he seemed somewhat familiar. Enjolras was sure he had seen him before. But then again, would he not remember if he had ever encountered a man with such unusual white-blond hair?

The man's eyes met his briefly as the stranger mustered him. As he caught Enjolras's look, he gave him a brief yet nonetheless polite nod in greeting. If he recognized him from somewhere, he did not show it.

Nodding in return, Enjolras wondered if he should simply ask. But then again, there was no reason to give his ignorance away in times like these. He would take the boy aside later on and once again remind him that he should not consider everybody a friend. That boy was far too trusting.

"I met Lèsgles, Feuilly and Bahorel on my way," Gavroche said. "Heading for the inn. Oh, and Joly, who was once again going on about some funny rash on his arm or something."

"Don't mind him," Enjolras answered automatically. Despite a merry disposition, Joly always thought there was something wrong with him.

"I don't," Gavroche stated. "It's good I see you, because there's been trouble with the Lowforders again, they say."

"Treacherous folks." How could they give others trouble in times like these? Did they not know the meaning of solidarity, of loyalty? Or were they on the other side, perhaps?

"But surely they're taken care of, so don't let it worry you," the boy continued lightly. "Well then, good day to you, I'm taking my new friend here to the inn." Then he took the man by the sleeve. "Come on, off we go. You wouldn't mind a drink, or would you?"

Enjolras watched them go thoughtfully, his mind filled with dark thoughts about traitors, Lowford and what lay in the mountains.

On the horizon, dark clouds appeared.


	4. The Man of Mercy

**4. The Man of Mercy**

It was just the kind of village inn Valjean had expected, a large framework building with an adjacent stable that formed one side of a square market place, with its sign, a cockerel that had once been painted golden but was now green with tarnish, creaking gently in the growing breeze. The massive oak door was half open, and to both of its sides, along the walls, stood wooden benches and tables, occupied by a handful of men and women in farmers' plain garments with wooden mugs and a few tankards before them. But most of the places were left free; Valjean assumed that they would fill once midday came.

"C'mon, travelling companion," said the boy, tugging at his sleeve and pointing towards the door. "In here."

"Who was it you were going to take me to again?" Valjean inquired, allowing Gavroche to lead him over the threshold and into the inn's cool, shadowy interior. The shutters were closed on most windows to keep out the growing heat, and though the room was rather too dimly lit for his taste, Valjean felt it was a comfortable relief from the burning sun outside.

"Hello everybody," Gavroche yelled once they were inside, not heeding the question, and Valjean sighed inaudibly. He had never liked being the focus of attention, and the boy's shouting made people turn their heads. Men and women, old and young, about fifteen assembled at wooden tables in a wide, low room, and four more standing at the bar, where a stout man in a green apron that had seen better days was polishing glasses. For a moment Valjean's eyes narrowed as he hastily studied the landlord's features, as if dreading to glimpse Thénardier's face, but the man was a complete stranger, red-haired and red-bearded and with a beak of a nose, his cheeks glowing just as red as his hair as he laughed. And so were the others around him, complete strangers.

Somehow he hoped very much it would remain that way. He had recognized the fair-haired young man Gavroche had taken him to just before, and he only hoped that the former rebel leader had not recognized him in turn. Eventually he would find out probably, since Gavroche knew who Valjean was, but Valjean hoped that this would be rather later than sooner. What was past, was past. If he really was to live here, in this place that seemed more like a dream than anything else to him, then he meant to start a new existence, an entirely new life.

Yes, if this was not a dream, after all. Maybe he would wake up and still be alone in an empty room. Maybe he would wake up and see Cosette again, only to lose her once more. His throat constricted at the thought. Or maybe… maybe he would find that this all, the barricades, Thénardier, Marius, had been nothing but a bad dream, and that he was still with Cosette, and that there was still only him and her, forever.

Forever… there was no such thing as forever. Happiness faded away, joy did not last. All too soon, grief would return to him to hold sway over him once more.

So he should be grateful for every happy moment, even if it was nothing but a snatch of a strange dream.

Strangers spoke their greetings, to him as well as to the boy, and he answered them as well as he could. Some gave their names, strange-seeming names mostly, but there were too many of them, and all at the same time, he could barely keep them in mind. Marten, Danil, Talir, Sophia, Jock… How was he to remember them all, let alone the faces belonging to them? Then the landlord came from behind his counter, not laughing anymore, but still beaming broadly, to shake Valjean's hand. His grip was firm and his voice booming, but his bright eyes were kind, and he pushed a biscuit into Gavroche's hand. Yorel was his name, so he said, and with him came a boy, a gangly lad of about seventeen with just the same untidy mane of red hair and a freckled face, whom he introduced as his son, Yossi. The boy laughed and tousled Gavroche's hair, his cheeks just as red as his father's.

"I'm taking him to see Orvar," Gavroche explained, drawing himself up importantly.

"Certainly a good idea, lad," the landlord agreed. "He's right over there in the backroom." And he pointed to an open door to the right of the counter. "At his usual place."

"So I can't miss him," Gavroche stated. "Come with me, travelling companion." And once again he gripped Valjean's jacket sleeve and tugged. "Come on! And I really wonder why you wear all this stuff on a hot day like this! I mean, a cravat! Nobody around here ever wears a cravat! You really need to get some new clothes." With this, he pulled Valjean after him into the backroom.

It was a small room and filled with the same twilight as the main one, but in comparison it seemed rather crowded. While one of the three tables it contained had been left empty, another was occupied by the group of young men they had met earlier on, part of those revolutionaries Valjean remembered. The one in the embroidered red vest – Bahorel, if he recalled correctly how Gavroche had called him – looked up and nodded at them, and so did the one who had spoken about some slight malady afflicting him. Valjean had forgotten the name, but he remembered the face and the brown wavy hair parted at one side. Gavroche nudged the bald one in the back, then his attention turned to the last table in the corner –

"Whiskers!" the boy yelled, at once letting go of Valjean's sleeve and dashing through the room, followed by the young men's laughter. "I had no idea you were here already!"

Looking after him, Valjean froze. The man beside whom Gavroche was hopping up and down excitedly… He would not have needed the warning he had already received through meeting several men from his past; that face he would have recognized anywhere. He knew those grim, hard features with the characteristic somewhat flat-seeming nose and the strong jawline, that tight-lipped scowl out of dark eyes. He knew them only too well.

"Look here," Gavroche cried, beaming, "I need to introduce you to my friend –"

"That won't be necessary," Javert cut in coldly.

Valjean nodded glumly. When he had imagined Paradise, he had certainly imagined it without Javert. Of all the men he would avoid, this was the one he would flee from most. No, perhaps Thénardier would be even more unpleasant, or maybe some others, but all the same, knowing to have Javert near made him more uneasy than the presence of any other man. All the times he had run and hidden from him… Even if he told himself that his old persecutor would not be dangerous to him any longer, there still remained a restless feeling of unease.

"So, breadthief," Javert continued, with a cutting edge to his voice, "how do you like life around here? Has someone shown you the way to the baker's yet?"

God, such hatred! And that after he had saved his life. "What is past, is past," Valjean replied as calmly as he could, though those young men's gazes made him want to crawl under a table and hide with shame. Once a thief, forever a thief. Was there no absolution, no forgiveness after all he had gone through? "It was a long time ago, and I was a foolish boy then, and my sister's children were starving." It was no excuse, he knew, but at least an explanation.

"And if he turned you in for _that_, he's a right bastard," a voice from beside him suddenly said. Turning, he found himself face to face with one of those familiar-seeming young men, a tall, dark-haired fellow dressed in brown with a blue neckerchief tied loosely around his neck. There was a pair of glasses peeking out of his breast pocket, Valjean noticed, as if he kept it ready in case he found something to read. "Nicolas Combeferre," the lad introduced himself. "Currently in charge of this noisy flock."

"Flock you're calling us?" protested Bahorel as Valjean took Combeferre's outstretched hand.

"Yes, you goose," Combeferre said over his shoulder, to which his friends reacted with an outburst of laughter. "Anyway… this is a place where there's enough of everything, and where people take care of each other. You won't need to steal out of hunger ever again."

"It was a long time ago," Valjean murmured, moved by this open, kind speech and these earnest eyes. Combeferre. He would remember the name.

"Don't mind Javert. No matter what Orvar says, he still bears his old grudges." Combeferre laughed and shook his head. "You should hear him and Enjolras – one of my friends – together. They positively hate each other."

"Both stubborn as mules," another put in, a slightly plump fellow with a round face and sandy-coloured curls. "Say, isn't that our old friend Leblanc?"

Some chuckles answered, while Valjean shook his head. "My name's Jean Valjean." Heavens, where were his manners? He should have said so already when Combeferre had introduced himself!

"I think that's the nickname Courfeyrac gave you," Combeferre explained. "Now, Courfeyrac, don't be impolite."

"I never was," replied the one addressed as Courfeyrac with a wide-eyed look of innocence.

"You know", Gavroche suddenly piped up beside Valjean, "you should really go and extend your paw to Orvar now. Or else, with that lot, you'll end up drunk and rolling around under a table, you mark my words."

"Cheeky little monkey," Bahorel called as the others laughed.

Gavroche poked out his tongue at him. Then his little fingers once again clutched Valjean's sleeve. "C'mon, over there. Whiskers doesn't bite."

"That depends," retorted Javert, raising one eyebrow sarcastically.

Following the boy towards Javert's table, Valjean still felt uneasy, despite Combeferre's honest display of loyalty and Gavroche's attempt to calm him. Whiskers? Yes, Javert still had those dark sideburns he had had ever since Montreuil. Valjean only dimly recalled him from Toulon, a tall, bronze-skinned and very eager youth, but he had been clean-shaven back then, if he remembered it correctly. He had always worn his hair long, though, and he still did so now, caught in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. And his expression had not changed, either, that usual grim line between his eyebrows as they shifted together in a frown. How could Gavroche call him a friend? Did this man have any friends? Did he want friends at all? Despite the many times their paths had crossed, Valjean found that he hardly knew him.

"That's Orvar," Gavroche whispered, pointing to Javert's companion with his chin. "Watch your language with him, he doesn't like it when people use rude words. And don't bounce up and down, he says it makes him nervous." Then he sidled up to Javert, dropped his fishing rod on the floor and punched him on the upper arm playfully.

For a moment Valjean just stood and stared. Javert would never allow this. He would never let the boy hit him and get away with it – let alone call him Whiskers where everyone could hear, when he considered it. What would he do, snarl at the child? Pull his ear? But none of this happened. Instead, Javert's hard features suddenly grew lenient, and he picked Gavroche up like a rag doll and placed him on the bench beside him.

Mystified, Valjean watched what could almost be called a display of affection. Did Javert secretly harbour a soft spot for children? Somehow this was hard to imagine. Or for this child in particular?

Suddenly he remembered that he was expected to greet another man, and hastily he turned to face the one who kept Javert company, bowing his head in greeting. So this was Orvar. He must be an important man, from what the others had said, but this was all he knew about him. Gavroche had not really explained where he was taking him.

"Welcome." Orvar's voice was deep and had a slightly rough edge to it. He looked just as grim as Javert, with a dark scar on his cheek seemingly tearing a bay into his black beard that otherwise covered his face from the middle of his cheeks down to his neck. His greying hair was wild, too, his face rough and lined, and his nose was a sharp beak, broken at least once. "You call yourself Valjean?"

"Yes…" Valjean was not sure with which title to address this man, so he simply held the gaze of those scrutinizing dark eyes and waited. He wondered if some of the young men at the other table were listening; there were merry voices talking behind him, but one or two might be trying to catch every word they exchanged.

"You knew Javert in your former life, as well as Courfeyrac?"

"Yes," Valjean answered simply. That stare did not make him want to yield any more information than necessary. Former life, Heavens above! It was an odd thing to imagine.

For a moment Orvar regarded him in silence, then he suddenly commanded, "Javert, tell me about him."

"He's a thief," Javert said simply, without looking up. Instead, he pushed his mug over to Gavroche, who accepted it gratefully. A verdict once spoken would never change for him. Then he fell silent for a moment, staring down at the table, and his large hands knotted into fists. "He'll take your pride and honour from you and call it mercy."

So this was Javert's perspective? His bitterness was like a blow that caught Valjean squarely in the chest. This was how he saw what Valjean had done for him? Valjean had meant to save him, that was all. He could not have let him die. So he had saved his life and given him back his freedom, and in Valjean's point of view, Javert had repaid him by helping him to get the injured Marius to his grandfather safely. It was all Valjean had asked of him, nothing more; he would have allowed Javert to arrest him without resistance. But Javert had shown him mercy that night.

And Javert had killed himself. At once Valjean understood. Just as he himself could not have lived with himself had he let Javert die, Javert had been unable to live with himself after he had given a convict his freedom.

My God… I would have been ready to trade my life for yours, only to involuntarily trade yours for mine. "It's my fault," he whispered. "I killed you. I'm sorry."

He saw Gavroche stare at him wide-eyed, the mug in his hands forgotten, and he thought to feel Orvar's gaze on him like a blade held to his throat. Yet Javert did not look at him, but at his fists on the table instead, and his knuckles were white.

"Valjean," Orvar said, his voice rougher than before, but still the young men laughed and chattered on behind them as if nothing had been said, "it's your turn. Tell me about Javert."

Surprised, Valjean struggled for words. As he automatically faced Orvar once more, those dark eyes seemed hungry to him, eager to hear what he had to say. Eager for the image to be completed… "He's… a man of honour, certainly… he takes his duty very seriously…" A memory struck him, that moment when Javert had come to ask to be dismissed, because, as he had believed then, he had accused Valjean wrongly of being who he was… "He's just as hard on himself as he is on others, if not even harder. He doesn't want anyone else to forgive him because he won't forgive himself his own mistakes." No, he had not allowed Valjean to wave away his offence as unimportant. He had insisted, proud and humble in one. "He rejects the mercy of others, and compassion means weakness to him."

Orvar nodded slowly, his scar seeming even deeper as he pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "So he would sooner die than accept another man's mercy." For a moment he looked down into the half-empty tankard before him, then he raised his head again and held Valjean's gaze directly. There was a wary intelligence in his eyes, and a sudden understanding. "Valjean, the man of mercy. I shall remember that."

Javert made a sound like a snort, but Valjean could not quite be certain, it was half drowned out in a sudden gale of laughter from Combeferre, Bahorel, Courfeyrac and the others. If it was as it had just appeared, Orvar had been able to deduct more than just that from their descriptions of each other.

"And you, boy," Orvar continued suddenly, nodding towards Gavroche, who almost dropped the mug and dribbled apple juice down over his chin, "I distinctly remember giving the order to bring every new man to me as quickly as possible, not dawdle about on the road. Yes, Joly and Bahorel informed me that you were taking a new one for a walk. No use to argue. You will do as you're told, boy."

Gavroche swallowed, wiping his chin with his sleeve, and nodded hastily, avoiding everybody's eyes. Surprisingly, Javert said nothing, neither words of reproach nor of defence.

It seemed that Orvar wanted to address Valjean once more, maybe even offer him a seat at his table, for he already gestured towards the chair opposite him, but then he suddenly rose to his feet, just as Valjean heard someone approaching behind him. "Yes, Sophia?"

A spark of suspicion all those years on the run had planted into him now made Valjean turn swiftly, ready to fight or run, and it took him a moment to calm himself. Really, he was being foolish! Who would come after him in here? Except Javert, perhaps, but Javert was seated where he could see him. No, it was only the landlord, Yorel, and one of the women he had seen earlier on in the other room, in a dark skirt and white linen blouse and a gentle, yet somehow attentive face. Sophia, yes. This was the name she had given when she had introduced herself.

Orvar slipped past him, and they met between the tables, exchanging a quiet nod for a greeting. Valjean had automatically assumed that Orvar was tall, yet only his being a lean man had conveyed that impression. In fact, he was neither short nor tall, about Valjean's own height, while Sophia was by more than a head shorter. "Hubert is here," she informed him briskly. "He brings news from Stonesend, and he asked for a word with the two of us."

"He waits upstairs in the room at the end of the corridor," Yorel added. "I'll have my son bring you drinks."

"Thank you." It seemed to be addressed to both of them. "Valjean, if you'll excuse me. Javert, I'll see you after you're done at Master Wenslow's." Orvar gave them a curt bow, then turned on the heels of his knee-high black leather boots and marched after Sophia.

Only Yorel stayed behind, tending to his duties as an innkeeper. "Anything else to drink, gentlemen? Another beer, Lèsgles? Apple tart, anyone? My wife just got it out of the oven." A chorus of sounds of appreciation was the answer. "Fine, I'll bring you a whole plateful. Yes, and your iced spicewine, Bahorel. Oh, and if Grantaire turns up, let me know, I'll fetch him a barrel." He laughed, and so did the group of former students and rebels. Then he turned to the other table. "And you, do you have any wishes?"

"C'mon," Gavroche piped up, waving to Valjean, "sit down! New ones always get a drink on the house, and I'd recommend the apple juice."

"That's right, of course," Yorel agreed. "They usually are thirsty, but never have any money on them."

Automatically Valjean patted his pockets, but apart from a handkerchief they were indeed empty. He had not gone out, so he had not taken his purse with him, and there were no coins left in his pockets.

But if he had found something, would it have been the kind of money they accepted in this place?

As Gavroche's gesturing grew more resolute, he complied and sat down beside the place where Orvar had been sitting, opposite Javert. What else should he do? He had nowhere else to go. His throat felt dry, and he gratefully accepted the landlord's offer. Later on he would surely be able to pay for himself; in this village at least someone would certainly have use for a gardener or a stablehand.

Or the forge, perhaps? From what he had heard he could deduct that Javert had found employment there. Maybe, if nobody else needed him, they would hire another strong man.

"Now, Gavroche, it's your turn," Yorel said. "Anything I can bring you?"

"Actually," Gavroche replied, grinning, "I was hoping for second breakfast."

"That would make it two slices of white bread, some butter, a piece of cheese, a little bowl of honey, half an apple and a glass of luke-warm strawberry milk," Javert provided with an expression that came surprisingly close to amusement.

"What? Hey! You remember!" Gavroche beamed. "You _did_ listen to me while tending to the horses!"

"I always listen."

"Let's hope I'll keep all that in mind," the landlord said, already bustling off towards the door. He must have a good memory, Valjean assumed, or otherwise he would have written it down somewhere.

And then they were left alone together. Valjean saw that Javert was gazing at him quite openly, his features grim as ever, and he mustered him in turn. The inspector had not changed much since he had last seen him, except that his hair was of a complete near-black now, without its former flecks of grey. He also wasn't in uniform, but in a plain rough linen shirt which might have been white once, held together with thin leather cords over his chest.

And there was something else noteworthy about him: For some reason, his hair was slightly moist, despite the hot sun outside.

It seemed Gavroche had noticed just the same thing, for he asked, "Have you gone swimming without me?"

"What? No. Just scrubbed off all the sweat before I came here."

"That suspiciously sounds like a bath."

"Rather like splashing myself at the rain barrel."

"Is the rain barrel large enough for two?"

"Talk sense."

"That's boring."

Javert sighed. "What have you been up to, anyway?"

"Fishing." Gavroche pointed to the fishing rod beside his seat. "But the fish wouldn't bite. I think your worm was no good."

"Fine, next time I'll bite a bit off to see if it tastes rotten." They looked at each other, their expressions serious, but then Gavroche started snorting with mirth, and Javert's thin lips twisted into what might be considered a hint of a grin for a moment.

So the friend Gavroche had been talking about at the bridge was Javert? The friend who had made him the fishing rod and placed the feather on his little cap, the one who was very accurate in throwing stones and – Valjean practically choked at the idea – could spit amazingly far? Was this the same Javert Valjean had come to know? Of course, he had never known him well, but the outer façade the inspector had always shown, even back at Toulon already, had never encouraged such ideas, to say the very least.

"I'll tell you something funny," Gavroche said happily. "I think the worm's drying out."

"Well, _we_ won't," Javert muttered. "Because it's raining."

"Raining? You must be imagining things. But I can get you the lid of some big pot to wear on your head if that makes you feel drier."

"Outside, of course. Prick up your ears. Or clean them out, either one might do you some good."

Ignoring Gavroche's lecture on how one could make little yellowish-green crumbs out of earwax and flick them around, Valjean listened to the sounds coming from outside. A horse's hoofbeat on cobblestones, fading away… and then only the soft, steady beat of raindrops. Soon those unpaved, dusty little roads out there would be turned to bands of mud, clinging to men's boots and later on, if it continued raining, trapping cart-wheels… Memories stirred, long-banished memories of Toulon, of heavy rain falling in sheets, whipped by an angry wind blowing from the sea, and him and the others toiling in the storm, plodding through puddles and stepping over slippery rocks jutting out in some places as if to catch the unwary, more stumbling than walking, eyes half closed against the onslaught of raindrops, shivering in their drenched clothing. They were long past the cursing stage, now they struggled on in silence, dragging themselves on by concentrating on the next step as if it were the last, and the next, and the next… The only sounds heard were their ragged, heavy breathing, the squishing noise their feet made in the mud, and the gentle clinking of the chains, a constant, unceasing reminder of their place, their punishment… One foot suddenly catching on a jarred piece of rock hidden under the brownish surface of a deep puddle, Valjean stumbled, desperately trying to regain his balance, the chain tightening painfully around his left ankle, when suddenly a tall figure loomed out of the gathering gloom, one of the guards in their dark uniforms positioned along their way. For a moment he glimpsed a stranger's features, a beardless boy's, his lips grimly pressed together, his chin thrust out defiantly, doing his best to ignore the rain streaming down his face and gluing long strands of dark hair to his bronze-coloured skin… Out of nowhere, Valjean received a blow to his shoulder, catching him before he completely toppled over and throwing him back on his feet, and on he staggered, his head lowered. A new boy, then. Under which category to place him? It was hard to tell yet, but he already was certain he'd rather work under that one's supervision than under, say, Bourin's or even Corporal Manelle's. Those two would not have pushed him back on track had he come stumbling towards them. They would have stepped aside and let him fall, and then used the lash as he was struggling back to his feet, gloating over him. And as he considered it, he did not doubt that they had made sure they were off duty during a storm like this, pushing the new ones forward, just like this tall, dark boy, to do the unpleasant work for them. And at once he felt almost sorry for the lad. He had been rough, but friendlier than others…

Valjean blinked. Yes, Javert had looked a lot younger back then, and defiant instead of grim, but his features had remained the same more or less. The one now sitting opposite him was the very same stubborn policeman from Montreuil-sur-mer who had become a constant reminder of the respectable mayor 's past, the past Valjean had so desperately been trying to escape from.

In his past life and in this, it seemed that he and Javert were fated to meet in pouring rain. But it was good to be out of the rain this time.

Yorel returned balancing a large dish, first distributing plates and drinks among the students, then he came over to bring Gavroche his second breakfast and placed a glass of apple juice in front of Valjean. Then he disappeared again, already going to bring two more tankards of beer for the students' table. Whatever Javert had revealed about him earlier on, Valjean was not rejected here, wherever they were.

He might have asked Orvar what kind of place it was, but Orvar was away with Sophia to listen to some important news that might not be all too pleasant, especially when remembering what Gavroche had mentioned on their way through the village… It had sounded like rumours to scare the fearful, yet now, when sitting in a darkened room that had grown even darker when outside clouds had consumed the sun, listening to the wind howling and the rain beating down… It seemed real now, so very real.

"I'll be soaked before I return to Master Wenslow's," Javert stated, watching Gavroche enthusiastically spreading butter on his bread.

"You think you have a problem? That's nothing compared to me!" Gavroche complained. "I meant to go and pick mushrooms in the forest, and some herbs perhaps, and then ride around a little –"

"You could have picked your mushrooms yesterday already, instead of lying in the sun all day. I don't have a problem, you do."

"And you might as well stop gloating, because you'll be getting wet as a sodden rag just as well." There was a hint of satisfaction in the boy's voice as he nibbled his cheese.

"Doesn't bother me. Once I get back to the forge, I can hang up my shirt somewhere to dry. It's hot enough in there."

"So when you're properly soaked and then go back to the forge, you'll be steaming," Gavroche concluded. "I'd like to see that."

It seemed that Javert had decided to ignore him, Valjean assumed, and this did not bother him much. Instead, he tried his juice, which was cool and refreshing. But somehow he would suddenly have preferred something to warm him up, after those dark thoughts had returned to him.

There was a little commotion as a thin, dark-haired girl of about seventeen or eighteen slipped in, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and the landlord hurried after her with a mug of something hot and steaming. Readily the young men made room for her, and she huddled in among them, still shivering slightly, but smiling.

"That's my sister," Gavroche said, nodding towards her. "Eponine. Always running around outside and never telling anybody where she's going. She'll go wrong, you mark my words." To this he waved a slightly buttery finger in the air. "You mark my words," he repeated in the tone of an old woman who has seen enough of the world to know all about girls who went wrong, in whichever direction.

"You eat your breakfast," Javert told him coolly. "Valjean knows more about that than you can possibly imagine."

The boy, who had been about to try his strawberry milk, put the mug back down with an audible plunk, so that the slightly rosy-coloured milk sloshed up and almost out over the brim. "Stop being so mean to him!"

"I'm merely stating a fact." His arms crossed over his chest, Javert was leaning back against the wall behind him, watching Valjean just as warily as he had watched him back at Toulon.

Gavroche sighed exaggeratedly. "I told you, don't mind him. He's a grumpy old dragon, is Whiskers." As Javert slowly and threateningly began to sit up straight, he ducked his head. "I didn't say a thing!" he squeaked. "Oh, did I mention evil-tempered? Vindictive?" A large hand caught the back of his neck. "Lacking all sense of humour whatsoever!" he squealed as Javert shook him. It was not a violent shake, though, Valjean noticed, just a playful kind of reasserting one's authority, like a large dog would nip a cheeky puppy.

"Now I'm going to fall into my plate face-first," Gavroche proclaimed, his mouth already full again, "and it's all your fault." Snatching up one of the two quarters of a green apple lying before him, he bit off a large chunk and chewed noisily. "You'll go wrong, Whiskers, you mark my words."

"You sound like an old crone, boy."

"And I love you too." Gavroche pushed the other quarter towards him. "Here, have something that'll make you big and strong. Not that you need it, beanpole."

Javert accepted it, just as over at the other table one of the young men rather loudly called one of his friends a mixture between a snail and an elephant.

The landlord's son came in to light the lanterns on the walls, and soon a comfortable yellow light filled the room, while outside the rain kept hammering down and the wind kept howling. At some distance, there was a long-drawn growl of thunder.

"Sounds just like your stomach when you're hungry," Gavroche told the former inspector, gracefully offering him a bite of bread too, which he declined. "Blimey, the sky must have a huge stomach, when you think about it. No wonder it rumbles like that."

Over at the other table, someone called another the son of a rhinoceros and was compared to a shaved walrus in return. The girl's giggle was distinguishable among the others, loud and clear and merry.

For a little time they sat in silence, Gavroche greedily devouring his meal, Valjean sipping his apple juice and feeling a little uncomfortable. Where was he to go now? Where should he find a place to stay? Maybe he should ask the innkeeper.

Finally Gavroche wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then sank back against the wall with a contented sigh. "Aaaah. Now I feel full and fat and lazy."

"Now you get back to your feet and run along home," Javert informed him. "Because I'll be going back to Master Wenslow's."

"Already?"

"He won't wait all day."

"What are you doing that's so important?"

"Working the bellows, silly." Javert nudged the boy off the bench, ignoring his protest.

"No! I mean, what are the blacksmiths doing that's so important?"

"You know the traders are due any time now," Javert replied, getting up and rising to his full impressive height.

"But surely not only bracelets and rings and pendants and stuff? You can't possibly tell me that's all you ever do, working overtime?"

"You're forgetting the horseshoes. You can never have enough horseshoes. Come on, get going. You there, Valjean, come along."

Valjean had already hesitated if he should follow them or not, but now he rose to his feet. "Where to?" he demanded. No, Javert would not treat him like some kind of animal and order him around, not this time!

"Oh, you're bound to like it." Was it mockery in his voice, or disdain? "Gavroche, I said move."

"But can we just wait 'til –"

"No."

Muttering, Gavroche trudged ahead, out into the main room. Valjean was the last to go, nodding goodbye to Combeferre as he went. Yorel was nowhere to be seen, probably busy in the kitchens, and a woman had taken his place behind the counter, short and plump and with a merry round face. While Javert counted out a handful of coins into her palm, Valjean had some time to study his attire. Obviously he was dressed according to the sense of fashion here, with his shirt not tucked into his trousers, as Valjean would have expected, but worn hanging over it, held together by a belt around his waist, on which he wore a small pouch and a sheathed dagger. The knee-high boots were nothing new on him, only that those were made of a softer leather, as it seemed, and laced up along the front. And were these the tight brown breeches Gavroche had spoken of? Well, in this case they were not as bad as Valjean had imagined them, not those peculiar tights he had pictured. Apparently there were some who wore those, too, like Bahorel for example, and Valjean had shuddered a little at the idea of wearing such a thing, but what Javert wore… well, he could certainly live with that.

As they stepped out into the rain, Valjean felt he was soaked immediately. The light of a beautiful summer day had faded to sleet grey, and heavy curtains of water pouring out of the sky clouded their sight. The streets were deserted; there was no living soul out in this weather. Did Javert really have to get back to the forge, or did he do this just because Valjean was with him?

Forked lightning flashed, casting a garish white sheen over the square for a moment before letting it fall back into gloom again. After what might have been a second, thunder roared, like the hunting cry of a wild creature long gone from this world and only remaining alive in the nightmares of men, a dim memory of an ancient terror, as old as the world itself.

Gavroche had jammed his cap back onto his head, and already the little feather was drooping sadly. "Where are we going, anyway?" he called over the growing song of the wind.

"Home, but past Roses' End," Javert replied, not heeding the rain at the slightest. "This way."


	5. Take Shelter from the Storm

**5. Take Shelter from the Storm**

It was as if an angry god of ancient times had unleashed all his wrath in this thunderstorm. The wind howled, rattling the closed shutters, and rain beat down onto the mostly unpaved streets, turning them into paths of mud. Lightning flashed, and thunder roared.

"Bugger me for a bloody lark," Gavroche grumbled, plodding through a large puddle with his bare feet, "now this is what I call foul weather."

"True," Valjean agreed. It was like having buckets of water emptied over his head, one after the other. By now he had come to the point where he hardly noticed anymore that he was wet, simply because there was nothing about him left dry, as it seemed to him. For all he felt, he might as well have stood in a pond. At least it was not too chilly, but he still longed to find shelter somewhere and struggle out of his wet clothes to wrap himself in a warm, dry blanket instead.

He hoped they would reach this Roses' End soon, wherever it was.

But maybe it was not exactly of much use to him, since he did not have any spare clothes to change into. And Javert would hardly lend him some.

Valjean sighed inaudibly. Did things like this happen in Paradise? Well, it certainly rained in Paradise, it had to, it stood to reason that it did, but a downpour like this…

Was Paradise to be approached by reason at all?

"Tell you something, Whiskers," Gavroche said cheerfully. "You haven't moved Grim today. Means you'll still have to."

"Have you taken Fyalar out yet?" His head bowed, Javert otherwise gave no sign that Heaven had opened all its locks above him. His hair sticking to his head, his shirt clinging to his skin, he looked as if he had been thrown into a tub with his clothes on.

"You bet," Gavroche said smugly, attempting to elbow him in the ribs, which looked rather comical since he had to direct his thrust steeply upwards. The top of his head did not even reach Javert's chest. Then he turned to Valjean at his other side. "You see, I've got a real horse, and his name is Fyalar. He's a dapple, all white and brown in some funny random pattern, and even his tail is half white and half brown. That is to say, it's white mostly because Fyalar has a white bum, like a lantern in the night, so to say," here he giggled, "but with a bit of a brown spot on the right side so there's some strands of brown at the right of his tail. And his mane is a complete mixture of both. I used to have a pony because I'm small, and I said to Whiskers a pony was something for babies, but Whiskers said I could ride Jolly Tom for quite some time still before my feet reached the ground. So I nicked his." Gavroche snickered happily. "I went and gave Grim a big carrot, and then I got the saddle on him, but I couldn't quite climb up, so I led him out and over to the fence, and I – well, let's say I had a little accident. But it was Grim's fault, mostly."

"It was because you had never sat on a real horse before, and because you can't fasten a saddle properly," Javert corrected. While the boy had spoken, his features had appeared indifferent, and he had not even reacted to being called Whiskers repeatedly in front of Valjean, but Valjean had not for a second doubted that he was listening.

"No, it wasn't!" Gavroche protested hotly. "And don't argue now, because I hate it when you're right!"

"As long as you know I'm right…"

Gavroche poked out his tongue at him. "Anyway, you're interrupting me. As I was saying, I climbed the fence and tried to get on Grim, but he chose just that moment to walk away, and I was only half up, and the saddle shifted, and I landed in the roses. Right there." He pointed to the dogrose hedge that lined one side of the muddy path, behind a fence. At the other side another hedge began, just a few paces away, to form a kind of narrow alley lined with wooden fences, half covered by leaves and little flowers. "And, boy, did it hurt." He massaged his backside. "I never sat down quite that hard before."

"And you probably never howled quite that loud before," Javert remarked.

"I didn't! I only – yelled a bit. At Grim. Yes. At your stupid big horse, that's right!"

"You know you howled. So loud that the, shall we say, _lady_ came to see about you. And it's not Grim's fault you're too small to ride him."

"Just because you're obscenely tall yourself!" Scowling, Gavroche pushed out his lower lip. "And of course she's a lady. A real lady. All in white and with long blond hair and a gentle voice, and when she feeds all her many white doves she looks like… like… I don't know, but she looks all… lady-like. You know, like the fairy princesses in the stories who live in little towers in castles and wear veils on their hats and stuff. And she helped me out of the roses and cleaned all my cuts and scratches while you were just standing around sneering."

Javert shrugged. "But I _did_ get you Fyalar."

"Yes, that you did." Stopping suddenly, Gavroche threw his arms around Javert's middle. "And I love you for it, so much that I could squeeze you to bits." To prove this, he tightened his grip. "Oh, do me the favour and yelp or something!"

"Ouch," Javert said evenly.

It did not sound very convincing, but Gavroche grinned and let him go and continued skipping along between the two men, down towards a gate at the end of the alley. "The next evening, he just came home with Fyalar, smug as a frog on a water lily leaf, and said he was mine. Do water lilies have leaves? Oh, never mind. And I was so happy I started crying. Nobody ever gave me a thing as good as a real horse."

"Now, now," Javert said. "It's not as if I spent a lot of money on him or anything. I just swapped him for Jolly Tom."

"But all the same," Gavroche insisted, "you went all the way to Lower Rosendale to get him. You see," here he turned back to Valjean again, "Whiskers found that farmer who had Fyalar but didn't need him because he's not a race horse, but not a cart horse or plough horse either, so there was nothing he needed him for, he only took up place in the stable, poor old Fyalar, but that farmer wanted a pony for his children, so Whiskers got Fyalar and gave him good old Jolly Tom instead, who's happy as a cat in the dairy storehouse now. I was always urging him to go faster, you see, but his little legs were just too short." Lightning flashed, and Gavroche blew a wet raspberry in its general direction before he continued, "But Fyalar, Fyalar is fast. And a real horse. But not as horribly big as Grim. Just a normal horse. And he has such a soft nose. He always nudges me with it when I come to say good morning, because I bring him carrots. Fyalar adores carrots. He'll crunch them up like – oh, look, here we are."

They had arrived before a low wooden gate, behind which high grass grew, sprinkled with dots of colour that were wild flowers. Large bushes and low trees almost hid the little house that stood in the middle of this small wilderness. Although Valjean knew that this must be somewhere in the heart of the village, it seemed to him that this one house was removed from the others, a solitary dwelling surrounded by trees and bushes and hedges of dogroses only. So this was the place Javert had spoken of, Roses' End. Who lived here? The lady they had mentioned? Or someone completely different, a man of Orvar's kind?

"Too bad it's raining like old Saint Peter didn't make it to the privy," Gavroche stated. "Otherwise we might have introduced you to Madeleine. That's the cat. She always lies in the sun before the house, and she's all white and soft and mews when you call her, though Whiskers says –" Here he paused, and suddenly he grinned. "Say, Whiskers, is this the man you talked about? You know, the one you said called himself –"

Javert nodded curtly.

If that was possible, Gavroche's grin even broadened as he positioned himself right before Valjean, his hands in his trouser pockets. "Is it true you once went around telling people your name was Madeleine? That's daft, if you don't mind my saying so. I mean, everybody knows that's a name for girls, and you actually have a beard!"

"I used it as a last name," Valjean admitted. What had Javert been telling the boy? What had he been telling others? And just because of a cat which happened to share that name!

"And you were a mayor once, right?" Gavroche asked, carefully nudging a worm that had emerged from the ground with his toe. "Hello there, ugly pink friend, I've got one like you on a hook, want to see it?" And already he was waving his fishing rod around so that Javert took a hasty step backwards.

"Yes, I was." But Valjean wasn't sure if the boy was still listening.

"Because Whiskers always calls the cat the mayor and stuff." So he had peen paying attention after all, despite his fascination with the worm, over which he now dangled the dead one on the hook. "Look here, say hello to the other worm! Or slime at it, or whatever it is you do when you're being polite."

"You wait here," Javert commanded. "I'll take him indoors. Come on, breadthief."

"Can't I come inside too?" Gavroche protested. "Why do I have to stand in the rain all the time?"

"Because you're wet anyway. You can't get much wetter. Besides, you're having fun with the worms." Javert nudged Valjean in the back sharply, and Valjean hurried to open the low gate so he would not have to repeat it. The muddy ground made odd, squishy noises under his feet. Where were they heading?

"It's not as if you aren't!" Gavroche cried. "Just look at your whiskers! Though you probably can't see them since you can't twist your eyes around like that… Hey, Whiskers, imagine you could twist your eyes around!"

"Hold that image," Javert said dryly as he marched Valjean through the wet grass. There was a path, half overgrown, they were following, and he seriously wondered if a gardener might be needed here. Unless it was a man of Javert's kind who lived in this place, of course. Then he would rather find somewhere else to work.

He only hoped their paths would not cross too often after this; he did not particularly enjoy being called breadthief all the time.

Once a thief, forever a thief.

Sighing to himself inaudibly, he cast a quick glance at the flowerbeds beside the path. And those behind them… Well, it seemed someone was growing vegetables here, or at least attempting to. And there was an apple tree, and a cherry tree… Maybe he might really be needed in this place.

The house was a framework building like most of the others, but smaller, and up in the attic was what looked like a pigeon loft, only that there were no pigeons to be seen at the moment. But Gavroche had mentioned them just now, which meant…

A lady in white, then. Valjean was not certain how he should feel about this.

Javert rapped on the door with his knuckles, and it seemed to Valjean that it was done rather more violently than necessary. "Come on," he growled, "open up."

Valjean almost wished that there was nobody home. He was in no state to meet a lady.

But then the door swung open slowly, the creaking of angles audible softly above the falling of the rain. Another thing he might put right? Before he could catch a glimpse of who had opened it, though, or even of what lay inside, it abruptly stopped in a half-open position, so that whoever had answered to Javert's knock now saw the former inspector only. There was a moment of silence, then a female voice said, "Come in."

"I'd rather not, thank you," Javert replied coolly. "But I brought you someone who might like to. Though he might be in danger of answering when you call your cat."

At once the door was flung open, and while Valjean was still wondering if this might be someone he had once known, he suddenly found himself facing a woman in a simple white linen dress, her long hair hanging open around her shoulders like curtains of gold. As she smiled, Valjean caught a glimpse of two rows of lovely white teeth. "Monsieur Madeleine! It really is you!"

Caught by surprise, Valjean did not know what to say. How came she knew him, when he did not know her?

"For Heaven's sake, come inside! You can't stand in the rain like this!"

Could he just trespass upon her hospitality? And especially in his current state? Automatically Valjean glanced at Javert, and their eyes met for a moment. Javert's gaze was cold, cold and blank. One corner of his thin mouth was drawn downwards contemptuously. "Go in, breadthief. I've got other things on my schedule, too."

A little helplessly Valjean's gaze returned to the woman, who was smiling invitingly. Should he go? She was very pretty, and he was very wet. It was one of the most awkward situations he could possibly imagine.

Once more Javert nudged him in the back sharply, and he took a few steps, over the threshold, into the house. Behind him, the woman pulled the door shut, without giving him the chance to at least thank Javert for bringing him to a dry place. Very suddenly, practically without a transition, he found himself in a low, windowless room with walls of wood, a small lantern on the mantelpiece giving off a gentle light. The room was rather dark, but cosily so. An almost closed door ahead led to a room brightly lid, for a finger of light ran across the floor towards him, ending close to the place where he stood, as if it were calling him. Another door beside it was shut.

"Come." The woman's voice was gentle, as was her hand on his arm. "You'll catch a chill in those clothes. I'll find you something dry to wear."

"I can't go in," he protested weakly. "I'm all wet, and my shoes must be dirty."

Her laughter was very pleasant, like the tinkling of little silver bells. "Take them off, then."

As he knelt down to untie his shoelaces, he seriously wondered who she was. It was clear to which period of his life she belonged, obvious from how she had addressed him, but he was unable to put a name to those bright eyes, that pretty face… He wished to know, but he could not just ask. Lord, where had he met her? Why was his memory so blank at once?

Placing his shoes by the door, he got up again. At least his socks were not completely soaked, but only moist, yet still he feared that he would leave wet footprints on the floor. He felt plain silly. Perhaps he should ask his hostess if she had a stable or barn where he could stay for now, until his clothes were dry?

"Come," she repeated, opening the half-closed door. Bowing his head in thanks, he entered a room filled with light. The curtains were drawn, hiding the storm outside. Instead there were candles on the table in the middle and lanterns on the walls. Merry flames were crackling in the fireplace, before which a white cat slept on a cushion.

"If you'll just wait a minute…" The woman hurried towards one of the chests of drawers lining two of the room's walls, pulling out drawers and looking for something. Feeling it would be impolite to watch her so closely, Valjean let his gaze stray through what apparently was a small living room. There was a comfortable chair in a corner, and a bench piled with cushions, and pictures on the walls above them, strange landscapes with forests and mountains and waterfalls. The table in the centre was surrounded by several wooden chairs, some with cushions on them and some without, and on it some items of clothing were spread out, and a neat pile of even more clothes waited in one corner of it, behind a basket filled with utensils for needlework.

A seamstress, then.

And suddenly a memory stirred, like the missing piece of a puzzle clicking into place. He recalled a woman, a rake-thin, pitiful thing, at Javert's feet, pleading for mercy, talking about her daughter being sick, about money-hungry employers, her speech interrupted by coughing fits and nigh impossible to understand. "Fantine?"

"You remember me!" Interrupting her search, she beamed, and he looked down at his feet a little uncomfortably. Was it such a favour, a great gift to have remembered her? Of course he would, why shouldn't he? Naturally he would. She had changed, yes, she looked like she must have looked once, back then before she had fallen into poverty and despair. But he still knew her. How could he forget the one who had given her child to his keeping? He had been a fool not to realize who she was straight away!

"I'm so glad I can help you now," she continued happily. "After all you did for me, at least I can repay you a little bit."

"Don't mention it. I did not help you for a reward." He would have been a horrible man if he had. "I did it because I wanted to help you, that was all."

"You're very kind, Monsieur Madeleine. You're the kindest man one can possibly imagine."

Shaking his head decidedly, Valjean still preferred to look at his feet, although having his moist socks before his eyes only increased his embarrassment at standing in a lady's living room soaking wet and being fussed over like this. His cheeks felt hot, and he had the unpleasant suspicion that he was blushing a little.

Maybe he should explain to her that his name was not Madeleine.

"Here," she continued, in that same happy tone of voice, "I found something that will probably fit you. Just wait a minute… Yes, exactly what I was looking for. Here you are." She was coming towards him now, smiling at him, carrying a pile of clothing in her arms. Apart from the fact that a linen shirt was among the items, Valjean did not recognize anything. "I always make some spare things, in case someone suddenly needs new clothes. Lucky for you, isn't it?"

"I'll give them back once my own are dry again," Valjean hastily promised. He was not too comfortable about the idea of borrowing anything without knowing what he could do in exchange for the favour. "Can I get changed somewhere?"

"Of course. If the kitchen will be alright with you, Monsieur Madeleine, I'm afraid I don't have any better place at hand, the hall just won't do and –"

"Never mind," Valjean interrupted gently. "The kitchen is more than enough for me."

Fantine led him through a door across the room, picking up another piece of clothing as she did so. "I'm grateful Javert brought you here," she said, "so someone can take decent care of you. He himself certainly wouldn't have done that."

Not knowing what to reply, Valjean simply shrugged, but she did not wait for a reaction from him. "Not a pleasant man, Javert," she commented as she placed a candle in a saucer on top of a small cupboard probably meant to contain dishes. "He doesn't harm anyone, sure, but he's always… I don't know. Rude. Nastily so. Very… I'm not sure how to call it…"

"Scathing?" Valjean suggested. "Try not to take it personal." Even though it probably is.

"Yes, thank you, that's the word." Fantine deposited what she had earlier on picked up on the cabinet beside the candle, and Valjean now saw that it was, in fact, a towel. She really thought of everything. "Orvar seems to hold him in high esteem. Well, maybe this is because it was Sophia who took him in when he first came here, but all the same, Orvar is hard to influence, I think. Even by Sophia." She turned and looked at him, and her eyes gleamed oddly in the flickering half-light the candle was giving. The shadow of what appeared to be a copper cauldron danced over the whitewashed wall opposite it. "He just came out of the forest one day, where he had been lurking for some time, stubbly and tired and hungry, but people were frightened of taking him in, he looked like a savage. Only Sophia was ready to, and he stayed with her for some time – maybe she's taken a fancy to him, like people in the village said, but I don't know, and one day he disappeared again, off to explore the world or something. And when he came back last winter, he brought a boy with him, a sweet little rascal who trailed him like a dog, and they took over Nenal's house when Nenal got married and moved to Greengrove. And it seems Orvar's been relying on him ever since."

"What does he work?" Valjean asked, hoping to receive advice for something he might do himself.

"Oh, all kinds, really. For Orvar and for the blacksmith and for Sophia, whatever they give him to do. Things like haggling with horse dealers and cutting some from Lowford down to size when they put claims on our farmlands, but all kinds of other work, too. I don't really know. And for the blacksmith he's one of the bellows-men from what I've heard. I'm not sure, I'm not in close contact with him. He only comes here when he needs some clothes repaired, or some new ones, mostly for the boy." Fantine shrugged. "I'm sorry, I try to stay out of his way."

"Yes, I understand." After all, her past encounters with Javert had been far from pleasant. Suppressing a shiver, Valjean shifted his stance a little uncomfortably. He was beginning to feel cold in his wet clothes, now he was not in the rain any longer. That constant shower from above had made it easier, just like when swimming in a pond. He would only start feeling cold then when he came out of the water. "It's not that important really."

"Thank you," she said, and he wondered for what. "But I won't detain you any longer, you'll be wanting to get changed now… I'll wait for you in the living room, just come over when you're done. You can leave your wet clothes here for now, I'll put them up somewhere later on. Do you have everything you need?"

Valjean nodded and thanked her, although he had no idea what the pile of clothing she had given him contained. He had given her enough trouble already as it was.

As the door closed behind her, he hastily struggled out of his drenched clothing and deposited it over a low stool he almost stumbled over as he turned around, hoping it would not drip too much. Shivering, he rubbed himself dry, then brushed his still moist hair out of his face. He felt a lot better now. Time to approach those new clothes, then…

While throwing the towel over the stool to his discarded things, he already reached for the topmost item on the pile – and suddenly stopped, his arm outstretched, his fingers closing around thin air. The scar on his arm, the burn from the red-hot poker… it had disappeared. It was gone. Could it be true? Could it have just vanished? Gingerly, as if fearing it might reappear when he did, he touched the place where it should have been, felt it carefully with the tips of his fingers, then decidedly closed his hand around it. Nothing but whole, smooth skin. It had truly gone.

Remembering something else, he turned his head to his right, hope suddenly soaring high inside him. Would the brand, that hateful mark of his dark past, still be there to accuse and condemn him? His eyes scanned the place eagerly while he craned his neck, squinting in the dim candlelight, but all he saw was unblemished skin, no sign of those three hateful letters standing for a life sentence of slavery. He gave the place a rub, but could feel nothing out of the ordinary. Could it have gone, too? Decidedly he slapped his own shoulder sharply. When the skin was reddened from a blow, even a faded brand would stand out clearly. Closing his eyes, he felt the skin sting, knowing it would show the desired effect now… But would he dare to open his eyes again, for fear that his rising hopes might be in vain?

God, he was a coward. Determinedly, he opened his eyes again… and saw nothing but whole skin, with no sign of an old burn mark left.

For a moment he closed his eyes as a warm, quiet sensation of bliss filled him, starting at the pit of his stomach and seeping into the rest of his body. Free. Free at last. At once that light-headed feeling from earlier on was back, that state of mind which had made him want to laugh for no reason, but now he didn't laugh. He just smiled to himself. Although his hair was still moist and he was shivering, this was a perfect moment.

As he left the kitchen later on, he was still smiling, though he inwardly feared he looked somewhat comical in the clothes he was wearing. It had taken him some time to decide whether he should tuck his shirt into his trousers or not, but finally he had decided against it because the trousers were just a tiny bit too tight to make him feel comfortable. Now he already regretted this decision, he probably looked like a slack that way. And the vest did not help in the slightest, it just made him feel awkward because Fantine had probably spent hours on that thread-of-gold embroidery.

"There you are." She had returned to her needlework while he had been changing into other clothes, and now she put what looked like a sock down and smiled at him. "It suits you. I'll have to find you a belt, though."

"Don't trouble yourself for me," he hastily said, "you've done quite enough for me already. I'm afraid I currently don't have the means to repay your kindness –"

"Not necessary," she told him firmly. "All I would ask of you is to let me know what happened to my Cosette after I… left her."

My Cosette. It was strange hearing anyone say something like that; for all those years she had been _his_ Cosette, his own girl. But Fantine was her mother, while he was just the man who had raised her. He had tried to be a father to her, and for a little while he had succeeded, for a little while… before he had lost her to her young man. "She is well," he said, fighting down the feeling of bitterness and loss. "I watched over her until she got married. To a young baron. A good boy, but lacking any sense whatsoever. Their love for each other is what matters, and they are happy together now. She was happy with me, too. I think, or like to think, she was, at least. I did my best to be a father to her."

That would almost make him Fantine's husband, he realized. It was a rather awkward thought.

"Oh, Monsieur… how can I ever thank you?"

"No need to," he assured her, his awkwardness increasing. The way they were always trying to thank each other… But there was nothing she had to thank him for. Nothing at all. "I am the one who has to be grateful, for giving me a daughter of my own."

Were those tears that made her eyes glitter like that? He could not quite tell. "Come, sit with me," she said. "There is so much I would like to ask you…"


	6. A Darkness that comes without a Warning

**6. A Darkness that comes without a Warning**

"Hunt him down! Spear the sow!"

"And roast him over the fire! Huzzah!"

"Thank you, how very kind of you," Courfeyrac commented sourly. "How very mature, boys."

Bahorel grimaced and lowered the spear he had been waving. "C'mon, don't be a spoilsport."

"True," Lèsgles agreed, urging his roan to walk alongside Bahorel's tall bay, "you're plain boring."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Knock it off, you two. And Bahorel, if I hear you say _huzzah_ one more time today…"

"And you're the biggest spoilsport of all, pal." Twirling his spear around, Bahorel thrust the blunt end in the general direction of Enjolras's horse's head, so that it shied and stumbled against Combeferre's slender mare. Then he hurried to heel his bay into a trot, and he and Lèsgles overtook Feuilly and Prouvaire and took the lead, dust swirling up from beneath their horses' hooves.

"Idiot," Enjolras hissed, fighting to calm down his prancing stallion. The horse was swift, but its temperament could prove troublesome at times.

"Easy, easy," Combeferre murmured to his mare, patting her bowed neck. He did not even find the incident worthy of comment.

Yes, this was Nicolas Combeferre, always calm, never hectic. He had not even dropped the scrap of parchment borrowed from the archives he had been studying, and soon he returned to his frequent occupation of tugging at his blue neckerchief. That short incident had not disturbed him at the slightest.

Behind them, Joly and Grantaire brought up the rear, quarrelling over the bottle Joly held in his hand. "It's mine!" Grantaire was just protesting. "Mine!"

"And you've had quite enough already," Joly said calmly. "You know, too much alcohol is bad for your health. I'd like to see your liver someday."

"Besides," Courfeyrac called back to them, turning in his saddle, "they say drunkards can die of spontaneous combustion. They sit before their bottle like nothing could ever happen, and _whoosh!_ they burst into flame!" He underlined this with a generous gesture of both hands, which almost caused him to fall out of his saddle.

"Wine makes me happy," Grantaire said morosely. He always looked a bit morose, Enjolras thought, with his pale face and his chin covered by the usual hint of dark stubble. He never got out of bed in time to shave, Feuilly used to say.

"Wine makes you worse," Joly said dryly. "Especially when you're in one of those pathetically morbid moods of yours."

As they bickered on, Enjolras silently agreed with Joly. Drink could land a man in the gutter in the end, even the best man imaginable.

Not that Joly never touched a bottle, though…

Checking that his bow was still in the case hanging from the saddlebow, Enjolras wondered whether the wolves would turn up any time soon. Normally they were there almost immediately when a hunting party set out. But today none had shown even the tip of its tail. It was really odd. Scanning the edge of the forest beside the road, he found that everything was unusually quiet. Even the wind had died down, leaving heat lying over the dry land like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

Ahead, the Crown of Stone came into sight over a gentle grassland ridge. It was not far to the crossroads to Greengrove in the north and Stonesend in the west now, and not far to their usual hunting grounds.

"Do we take a break here?" Bahorel cried, gesturing towards the barrow crowned with a monumental circle of rock with his spear.

"It's traditional!" Joly shouted back from behind. "You can't do anything against tradition!"

"Break! Yes!" Courfeyrac used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "And sit in the shade for a bit."

"Eat the bun I brought," Feuilly grinned.

"Agreed," Enjolras said. It _was_ a tradition of theirs, after all. And the wild boar would not be gone just because the hunting party arrived half an hour later than they could have otherwise.

One of these days, he'd try again to convince Prouvaire to take Lamarque along. But Prouvaire insisted it was too dangerous, Lamarque was not fully grown yet and might get hurt by a boar. Yes, of course he might, but what was the point in a wolfhound when it stayed at home?

At the foot of the barrow they dismounted, leaving their horses to stroll about in the grass. Naturally, Lègles, Joly and Bahorel were the first to sit with their backs against it, and bottles and sausage-filled buns seemingly appeared out of nowhere. What did they think this was, a picnic? Enjolras rolled his eyes as Feuilly and Courfeyrac hurriedly joined them. Apparently Courfeyrac had forgotten his former grudge already, for he graciously accepted the bottle Bahorel offered him.

But there was nothing wrong with a break, actually. It was a hot day, after all; Enjolras's hair was moist with sweat at the temples. He sat down in the grass beside Feuilly, and Grantaire immediately settled down at his other side, as could have been expected. Grantaire always sat down beside him, and Enjolras knew only too well how to deal with him. Automatically he reached out and took a large, suspicious-looking bottle away from his companion. It was for the best.

"Hey!" Grantaire protested. "I want my juice back!"

Scanning the bottle critically, Enjolras found that the colour of the liquid inside was impossible to tell because of the bottle's dark green. Could it be something harmless? It was no water, that much was certain. Carefully he took a swig… and found that it really was apple juice this time.

"You always suspect me," Grantaire complained, taking the bottle back and hugging it to himself possessively.

"You give me reason enough," Enjolras replied dryly. "Now –"

"It's not exactly nice of you."

Enjolras sighed. Grantaire was giving him that accusing look again, that look out of clear, bright eyes which spoke volumes. First he made a habit of drinking more than anyone in their right mind would, even Bahorel, and then he complained when people assumed every bottle in his proximity contained strong spirits!

"You don't like me," Grantaire continued. With the expression he was currently wearing, he looked even more pathetic than usual, pale as he was and with a hint of a shadow under his eyes constantly. As long as Enjolras could remember, Grantaire had had a sickly look about him, and his lean frame underlined that impression, just as his untidy dark hair underlined his pallor. In addition to all that, when regarding his profile, his chin was just slightly receding, while his nose seemed a tiny bit too large for his face. It made him look like a tragic wretch, especially when he had been drinking a lot and finally reached the stage where he moped about and lamented about whatever came to his mind.

Better to stop him before he could turn it into a speech. "Listen, Philippe," Enjolras tried, his hand on Grantaire's upper arm – he truly was thin, he should eat more instead of all that drinking – "it's not that I don't like you. It's rather –"

"That you despise me!" Grantaire interrupted wretchedly.

"Not again, R, old boy." Combeferre rolled his eyes and gave Grantaire a friendly pat on the back. "What's the matter with you today? You're still sober, so why behave like that?"

Still sober? Enjolras strongly doubted it. Probably still suffering from last night's intoxication, that was more likely. After all, the dark stubble on Grantaire's cheeks and chin proved that he had once again had trouble getting out of bed.

"I wish I weren't," Grantaire sighed dramatically.

There was a moment of silence between them, in which Enjolras and Combeferre exchanged an exasperated glance, and Enjolras inwardly cursed alcohol in every form imaginable.

The others did not heed them, though. "I wonder how he does it," Joly was just saying.

"Nock the arrow, bend the bow, take aim, let go. Quite simple." Lèsgles grinned. His bald head glistened with small beads of sweat, and still he had chosen a sunny patch to sit. Ever since his hair had prematurely begun to fall out, he shaved off the rest too at irregular intervals, insisting that if he were to be bald, he might as well do it properly. Enjolras found it odd, but had not remarked on it yet. Some of the others, especially Bahorel, teased him enough already as it was.

"Like I don't know _that_, you dunce." Joly ripped out a handful of grass and threw it at his best friend. "But can you aim like him? No."

"Because all you ever manage to hit with an arrow is your own foot," Bahorel put in, to general amusement. Even Grantaire chuckled.

"Now, now," Lèsgles said good-naturedly. "At least I do something for your amusement."

"That you certainly do," Feuilly agreed. "Here, Joly, is there another apple left?"

Joly tossed him one. "It's really remarkable," he stated.

"What is?" Combeferre inquired.

"Feuilly eating apples," Bahorel suggested with his mouth full.

"That new one," Joly explained. "Valjean. Have you seen how he can handle a bow? After such a short time here? It's only just been a week and a half."

"Have you seen how he can break the strongest branch? And lift the heaviest table, even if someone sits on it?" Prouvaire put in. "I'm telling you, the man is Hercules reincarnated!"

"Did you hear how he tamed Danil's mad bull?" Lèsgles asked.

"He did?" Feuilly almost dropped his apple. "The same one three of us together could hardly get into a box?"

"The very same. All on his own."

If this was true – and it was not very likely that Lèsgles would just make something up – then this was truly impressive. Enjolras had seen the beast himself a few times, a strong, vicious creature with malicious, bloodshot little eyes.

"Still living with Fantine, is he?" Bahorel asked, grinning.

"Don't draw your conclusions too quickly," Prouvaire cautioned. "She's always seemed to be a very virtuous woman to me."

"Well, you would know what women are like, would you?"

"But _you_ don't!" Prouvaire snapped. As even-tempered as a man could be, he still grew angry when anyone made a remark of this kind about women. "All you ever get to know is the bad sort, and you think every girl is like that, and what's worse, you think being like that is the purpose of every girl!"

"Easy, Master Poet," Bahorel said lightly. "I haven't harmed any woman yet."

Prouvaire glowered at him.

"But I think Fantine really has a bit of a soft spot for him," Courfeyrac stated. "I once caught her making calf's eyes, just like little Eponine does when our Céd walks by."

Everybody laughed, while Enjolras turned to scowl at him. "Leave off those stupid jokes! I'm not involved with her, and she's not involved with me, and that's it for you!" Really, those idiotic notions the others sometimes had… Unlike many among his friends, he was not interested in girls. There were much more important things in life.

"Yes, well…little Eponine has a habit of making calf's eyes at anyone at all, really," Joly offered apologetically. "Hey, Courfeyrac, remember when you, you know, asked her about that?"

Bahorel snickered at Joly's remark, and Enjolras could not help smiling, recalling the incident in question. Courfeyrac had caught Eponine staring at him with obvious interest, and had made something of a pass at her. The girl's reply had been rather off-putting for the eternal flirt: a rather long and confusing ramble about a handsome boy she had known in Paris, after which she had simply turned and walked away, smiling and singing to herself, leaving a rather stunned Courfeyrac behind.

Still, it had been about time someone pulled him down to earth. He really was getting rather big-headed.

A sudden breeze began, chilly compared to the heat that lay over the meadows, and gently rustled the grass around them. A cloud drifted past the burning sun, for a moment adding a shade of grey to the bright colours of summer.

"His appearance is strange, though," Feuilly returned to the previous topic. "I mean, he seems young, but his hair's white like an old man's."

"It's odd," Lèsgles agreed.

"Like his morphic resemblance can't quite interpret his mind's age." It was Combeferre, always the philosopher.

"Very strange indeed," Courfeyrac nodded, scrubbing a hand through his sandy-coloured curls.

"And he seems to be a skilled gardener, apart from a tireless bellows-man," Joly continued. "Is there anything the man can't do?"

Bahorel shrugged. "Get Javert to like him?"

There was some appreciative chuckling at this remark. "Yes, but Javert doesn't like anyone, or does he?" Lèsgles reasoned.

"No he doesn't," Grantaire agreed, thoughtlessly toying with the small metal amulet he wore around his neck on a leather cord.

"Sophia, perhaps," Combeferre suggested. "And he seems to get along with Orvar, at least he's with him regularly when we're working for the administration, Enjolras and me."

Enjolras grimly nodded his agreement. In his opinion, Orvar trusted Javert far too much. That black-hearted spy had no business at the mayor's office, none at all!

"Orvar sends him on errands, too," Combeferre continued. "Means he really trusts him, and so did Dolorin. Remember when I was to go to town with him, I to pick up the mailbag and he to have a word with some officials about that quarrel with those from Lowford? Dolorin meant to take it up before the King's Court even, so it got solved at last. Anyway, he seems to have worked it out quite well, because Dolorin was very pleased afterwards."

Again Enjolras nodded. He remembered it only too well, after all he spent considerable time working on business of the state himself. They did not see much of the state here, except the annual tax gatherer visit and the mailbag Combeferre picked up at Moorcastle, the capital of the province and only actual town within a couple of days' journey, every fortnight, but they still were part of the Kingdom. Of course, he did not really like the idea, but until now there had been no problems with the distant King, many leagues away, many days' travel up in the north, so it might as well have been a republic. Except that Orvar's seal showed the royal sigil, but he had learned to live with that.

Dolorin, Orvar's unfortunate predecessor, had known the King in person, or at least met him once, and he had spoken very highly of him. And unlike Orvar, who had been a soldier for a long time, Dolorin was – or had been, rather – a scholar. Enjolras trusted him to know something about monarchs. Besides, there were all kinds of stories about the King. That he had reserved several halls in his palace for the homeless, that in his kitchens there always was a morsel left over for the poor outside, that he would walk the streets once a week and listen to everybody's problems and sorrows… They said the King was a good man, and so did Dolorin.

What had really happened to Dolorin, when he had suddenly disappeared overnight more than a fortnight ago? Sophia assumed that he had been kidnapped, while Orvar suspected he might well be dead already. To be honest, Enjolras feared the same, though he somehow tended to feel that if he did not voice his concern aloud, then it might not be true. Mere superstition, of course, yet still he would not speak of it, and he forbade his friends to do so. Maybe one of the search parties sent out again and again would find him and bring him back. There still was some chance that he would yet come home alive, however small it was. There still was a chance!

An image formed inside his head, an image from his memory: Dolorin in his official white cloak that the mayor wore on special occasions, his long red mane flying in the wind as he sat in the saddle of his stallion, flawlessly white as it was traditional for the mayor's horse, watching the dancers on the meadows on Midsummer Eve, the last rays of sunlight crowning him with gold… How could such a figure of light be swallowed by the darkness?

Feuilly, Lèsgles and Bahorel got up and started tossing a small ball to each other, and Joly protested that it was his – which was true as far as Enjolras knew, Joly tended to carry all kinds of such things around in his pockets – and attempted to snatch it away from them. Soon Combeferre and Courfeyrac were playing along, and it did not take long for Prouvaire to join in as well. By that time, Joly and Bahorel were already rolling around by the barrow trying to stuff a handful of grass into each other's mouth.

Grantaire glanced at Enjolras as if asking for his permission, then, when Enjolras did not react, got to his feet rather quickly and attacked Bahorel from behind.

Inwardly groaning at so much childishness – rolling around in the grass like little schoolboys! –, Enjolras wrapped his arms around his knees. For a moment he considered whether he should participate in the ballgame that was continuing with no heed to the fighters, but then decided against it. In this place, it seemed unworthy behaviour. After all, this was where they had buried Galahir long ago, the hero of stories and songs. The man of Rosendale who had chained Grogarad. The warrior who had died so that his friends could live.

Grogarad. Even in the bright sunlight, the name held a dark menace, a sense of dread older than the world, just as old as Grogarad himself. Centuries had passed since Galahir's sacrifice, and still terror stirred in the echo of Grogarad's name.

Evil would always be there, lurking at the edge of its hiding place, waiting for the right time to stealthily creep forth. Then shadows would slip out of every cranny to flow together to one, and soon darkness would become a vast ocean, ready to smash all dams and flood the lands of men…

To swallow them like it had swallowed Dolorin.

And here his friends were, eight brave, but careless youths, playing and laughing at the foot of that mighty mound crowned with jagged teeth of rock… They really should know better! Had they not brought a great sacrifice themselves, each and every one of them? Did they no longer know what it meant to die a martyr?

What would Galahir have thought of them, of their behaviour? With their childish game, were they not befouling his sacred memory?

But on the other hand… no. Galahir had died so the people of Rosendale could live, so they could go on with their petty little everyday lives, with their little sorrows and joys, his own generation as well as those to come, heedlessly living under the sun… This was what Galahir had wanted when he had died for Rosendale.

If he could see that silly young pack of puppies now… maybe he would smile.

"But I will remember you," Enjolras whispered, watching the progress of a small black beetle in the grass at the foot of the barrow. Life went on, just as it always would. "I will not forget what you did for those who could not even thank you." When he had died, had Galahir been aware of that, of all the coming generations to whom his name would be no more than a dim memory, a myth told by the fireside? "And when my time comes, I will do what you have done. I will die as you have died, so the world will see another morning."

And the time would come. Dolorin had only been the beginning. Soon darkness would rise once again from Norgard…

"Man, Enjolras, you bore!" Courfeyrac cried, running past in pursuit of the ball. "Why don't you play with us?"

"Anything the matter, Enjolras?" It was Combeferre, squatting down before him, his even features showing concern.

Enjolras shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing really."

"You're worried, aren't you?" Combeferre insisted. "You've seen Orvar's memorandum on his desk in the office, haven't you?"

Enjolras nodded gloomily. Things to do in case of invasion… Important strategic points… Possible targets…

"I saw it, too," Combeferre said, quite needlessly. "I know what you're feeling."

"Do you?" It was not fair, answering so brusquely, pushing him away like that. Combeferre had always been at his side when he was needed, in his past life as well as in this. He was one of his most loyal friends. But this moment, the thought of Galahir and of his own fate… it just was too private, a secret he shared with the spirit of the dead hero and nobody else, a feeling that was too intimate to discuss. It was like a small bud that had not yet sprung into bloom. Its time had not yet come. And then, when its time came, Combeferre would know, and so would the others. When they rode into battle, they all would know. But not yet, not just yet.

If Combeferre was hurt, he did not show it. "Look, I'll be honest. I've read it, and I'm frightened. I really am. But there is still time. Moorcastle is preparing for war; they'll be mustering their armies in a month's time, maybe even sooner. And the King knows. The whole Kingdom will be on the march. They'll be ready, Cédric. We won't be alone."

"What if they won't?" It had broken out of Enjolras before he had been able to bite it back. "What if they attack sooner? What if no help comes?"

Just like in the stories, in Galahir's days… From Norgard up in the mountains, distant as a nightmare upon waking and still only a few miles' march beyond Stonesend where the road led up steeply to a sea of sheer rock, they had come like a flood to take the Valley of the Free Villages, the valley of Greengrove and Lowford, of Vinyarden and Rosendale, and to make their way north into the heart of the Kingdom from there, and south to the rich lands along the coast of the Jade Sea…

But they had had an entire army in the stories. There had been hundreds of men who could bear arms, and they had marched against the enemy, and their blood had watered the meadows, and in the end the Captain-Mayor of Rosendale and the Sorcerer of Norgard had slain each other, and Galahir had given his life to chain Grogarad.

And Norgard had been scoured of all evil, and for long centuries the mountain wind had blown through empty halls… until it had woken again. Often strange, sinister men had been observed near Stonesend and up in the mountains, and the people of the village could see the fires lit high above their homes, the beacons of Norgard of old.

It had begun once more, and it must be brought to an end, for good or ill.

Combeferre was silent for a moment, his head lowered, frowning at the grass before his boots. One of them was not properly laced, one of the leather cords was dangling. "Then we're doomed," he said earnestly. "But you know Orvar doesn't expect them just now. Not while the traders haven't been there yet. You know how the merchants always bring their own mercenaries these days. They must know that at Norgard just as well as they know it here."

Of course Combeferre was right, and of course Orvar was. Attacking a village filled with guards belonging to a merchant train was not a good idea at all. But still…

Still there was a feeling of a shadow rising, unfolding, spreading over the sky…

"Do you think we should move on?" Combeferre asked.

Enjolras nodded, righting himself. "Perhaps it's better if we get on with it. It doesn't feel right anymore to leave the village for long."

"Agreed." Combeferre came back upright lightly. "Boys, we're going!"

"What, already?" Courfeyrac called back, tossing the ball in Feuilly's direction hard.

Feuilly ducked, then leapt after it, his little braid flying behind him, hurrying up the barrow a few steps and picking the ball from the grass. Righting himself, he suddenly froze, and all eyes were on him as he stood silhouetted against the bright sky motionless. A wind arose, surprisingly cold, and made a strand of hair that had slipped out of his braid flutter against the side of his head.

"What the devil is going on?" Bahorel muttered.

Enjolras did not hesitate to follow his friend. The wind was whipping at his hair now, but he did not heed it. There was a sensation of unease lurking in the pit of his stomach, growing with every passing moment…

"Hey, Enjolras!" Joly called, and automatically he turned his head. "He's kidding you! Bet you anything he'll jump you and put grass in your hair!"

He did not reply to this. True, this was one of the tricks his friends sometimes played on each other, but it did not feel right at the moment. It felt out of place, as if it did not belong in this world, here and now…

He was up by the rocks already, the Crown of Stone that was visible from several miles away. Turning back to his former destination once more, Enjolras saw what Feuilly had seen, ahead in the plain that sloped up to foothills of sheer mountains over towards Stonesend: Black against the clear sky, smoke was rising over the place where that little town lay nestled against the mountainside, plucked into threads by the wind. And approaching the crossroads like a flood of darkness… What must be hundreds of heavily armed men swathed in black, horsemen and foot soldiers alike, rank upon rank, line upon line, and with fell beasts like gigantic lizards among them, their sable banners whipping in the sudden gale.

The shadows had flowed together to one. The army of darkness was on its march already.

Feuilly was murmuring something, but the growing wind tore the words from his mouth, and Enjolras could not hear them. Yet even if he had, he would not have understood their meaning, not in this moment. "My God," he whispered.

"Lord in Heaven!" The voice was Combeferre's, and someone had grasped Enjolras's shoulder, but it might as well have been Bahorel, whom he heard cursing. Everyone was shouting at once, it seemed. While the shadow made flesh crept along the dusty road, towards the crossroads, closer, ever closer…

Once again the shadow was about to fall over Galahir.

It was this thought that stirred Enjolras and woke him from his stupor. "To the horses!" he roared. "Hurry! We must warn them! Courfeyrac and Prouvaire, you go to Greengrove, part of them will head there once they reach the crossroads! The rest, with me! Come on, move!"

Running down the slope, he stumbled against several others without noticing who they were, whistling for his horse. Already Prouvaire was mounted, and shouting something that was lost amid all the other raised voices, gesturing for someone else. Enjolras assumed he was calling for Courfeyrac to hurry, but did not pay it any more thought. He had taken care of Greengrove, and they could take care of Vinyarden. Now his sole concern was Rosendale. Once they were there, Orvar would send a messenger on to Lowford.

"My horse! Where's my horse?" Standing amid his mounted companions, Lèsgles was looking around wildly. Already Courfeyrac and Prouvaire were galloping off to the north, choosing the path over the fields, aiming for the cover a curving line of forest would soon offer them. Avoiding the road and riding along the fields, they would be far enough ahead of the invading force before they reached the end of the forest. They would make it in time. The others were still milling about, Feuilly and Bahorel ready to take off, their horses prancing and throwing their heads.

Joly yelled something, pointing towards the other side of the barrow, but his voice was drowned out by the frantic neighing of the horses. Feuilly's grey stallion reared and screamed, pawing the air with his hooves. "Go!" Enjolras yelled at him, grasping his own horse's reins, his fingers slippery with sweat. "Don't wait for us! Go!"

"No!" Feuilly roared back. "We will not leave you!"

"Go! Just go!" The stallion was prancing, would not let him mount… "In the name of all demons, go!" He pulled himself up and dug in his heels just as Joly, already in the saddle, appeared dragging along Lèsgles's roan, which was throwing its head and rolling its eyes madly. Lèsgles hastened towards it, almost stumbling over something hidden in the grass…

And then he suddenly gave a cry of pain, clutching a black, feathered shaft protruding from his upper arm. Already blood was seeping out, dyeing his sleeve red.

They were upon them, a pair of scouts in green and brown, one pale and one swarthy, shaggy hair hanging over rough, scarred faces, their horses thundering towards the hunting party. Again the swarthy one raised his bow in full gallop, aiming at Joly, who was trying to drag Lèsgles up into the saddle, but Bahorel came charging out of nowhere, swinging his spear above his head, and the blunt end caught the man under the chin and sent him flying out of the saddle. With a roar of fury, his companion waved a curved sword, about to collide with the group… Turning his stallion, Enjolras frantically fumbled for his dagger he had stowed in his saddlebag, cursing his folly that he had left his sword at home –

Something flew past him and caught the foe in the face, shattering on the metal browband he wore, shards of white glass raining down among splashes of a brown liquid as he fell to the ground heavily. Behind Enjolras, Grantaire slowly lowered his hand, anger as well as a hint of regret written on his face as he studied the result of the impact his bottle had made. "Shame about the good brandy," he stated morosely.

Shouts rose among the companions; the moment of triumph was brief, but burst through the dread and terror as brightly as sunlight through the clouds. Grantaire! How Enjolras had pushed him away before, how he had been cold and rough to him! And how much he had been wrong, a hundred, a thousand times wrong! Grantaire was one of them, one of their brotherhood, he had just proven it once more. A full member of their brotherhood.

But then his gaze fell on Lèsgles, swaying in the saddle as blood soaked his linen sleeve, and all that remained was panic, panic that made his insides constrict painfully. "We have to get back," he cried, needlessly, for already Joly had taken Lèsgles's reins and was urging the horses into a brisk trot.

"Make for the village! We must warn them!" Bahorel turned his horse, digging in his heels, and he and Combeferre thundered ahead, their heads bent low over their horses' necks.

"Go!" Joly cried. "All of you! We'll follow up behind you, we'll take the forest path! We'll be fine!"

"Go!" Enjolras repeated. His stallion needed no urging at all to leap into a wild gallop. At this speed, the horse would have been in danger of breaking his legs had they been on uneven ground, but the road consisted of smooth, hard-packed dirt, and the horses' hooves kicked up nothing but dust on it, not even stones. At his side, Grantaire's sallow-coated gelding was slowly gaining on him; Feuilly was right behind him. They must be clearly visible from behind now, a couple of small figures racing towards the outskirts of Rosendale, the generous cluster of large farmhouses known as Lower Rosendale, but unless the invasion army possessed riders whose speed exceeded the average horse's greatly, they would never catch up with them in time.

Except if those creatures, perhaps…

A cold tremor crept through Enjolras at the thought. Norgard had a new master and a new army, and they had abominable beasts to serve them once more, the very images of evil. What if Grogarad, too, would rise from his century-long sleep?

Was Grogarad real at all, he suddenly wondered, his eyes narrowed to slits against the wind whipping at his face, feeling his stallion's flanks heaving heavily beneath him. Of course, Galahir had chained Grogarad, and Grogarad had killed Galahir, but was Grogarad… what he was in the stories? It was hard to believe under the clear light of the sun, and yet, with all that dark fear in his heart, he believed in Grogarad, believed in him like in any other living being. If the Sorcerer had become real once more, so had Grogarad.

Then his time was drawing near now. Very near.

He knew they were bringing more and more ground between them and the invaders, and still he felt the urge to press his shoulder blades together against a hail of arrows he expected any moment… He already felt the pain, felt the tip bore into his back…

But he would not cower before the men of Norgard! He would not be afraid!

He was a warrior of the light, always had been and always would be.

And in the end, would it be him who chained Grogarad again, while Orvar would defeat the resurrected Sorcerer?

There was foam flying from his stallion's mouth, but Enjolras did not allow him to slow down. Not now. Any time, but not now. There was a higher purpose, a greater goal, and nothing else mattered now.

Let us be there in time. Let us warn them in time.

The houses were flying towards them now, closer, ever closer… Men, women and children, going about their lives unawares…

Bahorel was shouting, and Enjolras joined in, but he hardly knew what he was telling them. He hardly even heard the screams anymore. Orvar! He had to find Orvar! Or Sophia, just anyone who knew what had to be done! As they raced on through the dusty streets, the only thought in his head, his only concern, was that he might be too late already…


	7. The Night is closing in

**7. The Night is closing in**

Cowering behind an upturned cart, Gavroche breathlessly watched the display of terror and chaos around him, trembling slightly and yet determined, pressing Théodore to him tightly. Théodore was a gift from Fantine, a large cuddly toy bear sewn of dark brown rabbit fur, and he had taken him with him down to Lower Rosendale, where he had meant to visit a few playmates, since Javert was busy otherwise once again. But perhaps it was not so bad that Master Wenslow had claimed his big friend for bellows duty, because Javert would surely have forbidden him to go anywhere near the fighters.

To be exact, Orvar had just now told him to take his bear and run, that there was no use for a boy with a sling that shot pebbles, but Gavroche had only run as far as this cart, where he was considering his possibilities while already scooping up a handful of pebbles as well as a little larger rocks. A sling was not to be sneered at! Taking aim carefully, Gavroche let a pebble fly against a dark-clad ruffian's helmet a couple of paces away, where it produced a funnily clanging sound. The man turned, and immediately Orvar smote him down with one strike of his sword. But he did not even wait until the enemy hit the ground, already he engaged another into a fierce duel. He wore neither helmet nor armour, and yet he was unwounded, and one attacker after the other fell before him. By his side were a handful of other men from the village, two armed with swords as well, the rest with pitchforks and clubs, flails and scythes.

But however many Orvar hewed down, there were more and more coming, and screams and shouts from all directions indicated that similar scenes were taking place all over Lower Rosendale. There was smoke in the air, and a woman's voice was yelling for buckets and water. They were setting fire to the houses! Horses neighed, donkeys brayed, cows mooed, sheep bleated in a deafening chorus. A forlorn pig came galloping down the street, then turned and headed back in the direction it had come from again. Instead another black-clad stranger ran past Gavroche's hideout, his black hair a tangle of thin braids, his bare, dark-skinned arms covered with strangely shaped tattoos, two large, scary devices looking like oversized reaping sickles in his hands…

Gavroche did not think long. Leaping out suddenly, he flung his arms around the man's legs and held onto him tightly as he fell. Immediately Talir, the horse-breeder from the edge of the village, was there and thrust his blade into the enemy's broad back with an odd, ugly sound. "Run, boy," he panted. "Run for your life!"

"I can fight!" Gavroche protested. Smoke was stinging his eyes and making him cough. "I want to fight for Rosendale!" he choked out.

"You're too –"

"Watch out!" another man yelled, and Talir could throw himself aside just in time before a large, emerald-green, scaly creature landed where he had just stood, its long, thin tail whipping the air, needle-sharp teeth gleaming in a wide red maw. Instinctively Gavroche hurled his handful of stones at it, and it hissed as dust settled in its yellow eyes. Leaping onto its back, Orvar brought his sword down hard, and the monster collapsed with its skull cloven in two.

"See, see," Gavroche stated. "That oversized lizard had quite a bit of yellow and red goo in its head."

"I told you to run, boy!" Orvar bellowed just as a group of black-clad men, some of them carrying torches, came into sight around the corner. "Morcas, Talir, fall in behind me!"

"Can I have one of those teeth?" Gavroche called after them as they advanced, forming what might be one of those legendary Curanian Arrowheads stories told about. Or maybe not. "Oh, never mind," he told Théodore, who was still lying under the cart. "Let's go somewhere else and thrash them. Yes! Let's go and –" Here he stopped, and a cold chill gripped his insides. "No! You can't do that! That's Jolly Tom's stable! You can't set my old pony's stable on fire, even if I've got Fyalar now!" This was no game anymore! Frantically he looked around him, for something he might use as a weapon, anything… "Kill them, Orvar!" he yelled as there was nothing there. "Kill them! Kill them!"

There had to be another way to those stables. There had to be. Snatching up the bear, he ran while tucking his sling into his belt, into a narrow alley that led past a hedge-encircled vegetable garden… No way of getting in here. Further on, then. Further on. Oh, poor old Jolly Tom! He ran and leapt over a fence, ran over a patch of lawn, yelped as an arrow whistled past his ear. Past the low storehouse, along the stable wall… Why was there nobody there? Why didn't he meet anybody? The stable gates were bolted, and he jumped up and rattled them, wheezing all the curses that came to his mind while thick smoke made him cough. Move, you stupid bolt, just move! Move!

Very suddenly the door swung open, and Gavroche fell back into the trampled grass and rolled over, panting and clutching Théodore to him tightly. No time to lose! He struggled back to his feet, stumbled into the smoke-filled haze inside the stable even as the roof above the entrance was licked by reddish-yellow tongues of flame. His foot caught on something he could not quite make out, and he fell, but got up again without heeding the pain in his knee. "Tom! Tom! Where are you?" But there was nobody there. The stable was empty.

Gavroche howled in frustration. "What did I come to rescue you for?" he shouted as he ran back to the door. "You're ungrateful! I'll never rescue you again, do you hear? Never! Never! Nev_aaaaaargh_!" He managed to throw himself aside just in time as a piece of wood about as long as his arm came crashing down, brightly ablaze, and landed on a heap of straw beside him, which was shrouded in flames in a matter of seconds. Sparks sprang up and stung his face and hands. Coughing and wheezing he struggled back towards the door, which was crowned by garbs of fire already, closed his eyes tightly and leapt through, pressing the bear to his body with both arms. "I'll never do that again!" he howled, not knowing at whom his fury was directed, at the stable, the pony, the enemies or the fire itself. "And I'll tell you something: I'm fed up! I'm going home! Yes, I'm going –" Here he suddenly broke off, standing in the middle of the patch of lawn by the burning stable, frozen to the spot. "Home," he finished in a whisper. In his mind, the image of a house formed, a house dearer to him than all others, small and with a living room that was a kitchen and bedroom at the same time, and narrow, creaking stairs leading to the upper floor, where he had a room of his own… a house on fire.

And then he was running again, as fast as he could, past burning houses and cattle running wild, past men and women forming bucket chains, past groups of fighters and fallen bodies, through Lower Rosendale and out onto the dusty road that led through fields where the corn stood high on to the main village half a mile away. His sides were aching, his legs felt heavy and tears blinded his eyes, but he had to go on, he had to…

At once a handful of riders overtook him, all armed with swords and with lances carrying a thin black banner, and the last in the row fell back for a moment and used the blunt end of his lance to hit Gavroche on the back of his head. The boy fell to his hands and knees hard, dropping Théodore into the dust, shrieking with shock and pain. There was coarse laughter above him, and then the hoofbeats accelerated again, trying to catch up with the others.

"You swine!" Gavroche screamed. There were a couple of sharp pebbles stuck in his bleeding palms. "You son of a bloody fat kraken!" His knees hurt, they surely were bleeding just as well, and his new trousers certainly were torn. "Wait 'til I tell Whiskers!" he howled. "He'll tear you to bits and throw your ugly cowardly head down the privy!" Wincing, he tugged one of the pebbles out, then another one…

Suddenly he realized that the rider was coming towards him again, reining his horse in sharply before him. Dust swirled up around hooves that seemed larger than they should be, and a rough, leathery face was leering down at him from high above. Even the horse, a huge roan stallion, seemed to be leering, showing off his large yellow teeth. "Did you just call me coward, bug?" the man demanded in a low, oddly nasal voice.

Gavroche gulped down a mouthful of air. Throwing insults at a person was so much easier without having a lance pointed at his nose. "Technically," he replied, trying to keep his voice even and inwardly cursing the tears rolling down his cheeks, "I was talking about part of you only, so the answer would be no, but –"

At once the sharp point was right between his eyes, and Gavroche shifted backwards, wincing as his already grazed knees were dragged over the pebbles again. "Did you call me coward or not?" the mercenary roared, sending spit flying over Gavroche's head. "Answer, or I'll spear you like an ox!"

"I want to see you spear a whole ox with that little stick," Gavroche blurted out before he could stop himself. As soon as it was said, he wished he had not. His eyes transfixed by the spear point, he tried to back away, his knees burning like fire while an icy dread was gripping his insides…

But the spear did not move. Only then Gavroche heard the shouts and clanging of weapons ahead, where the man's sole attention lay now. He had not even heard him.

And yet relief had come too early. Just as Gavroche craned his neck around the roan's legs to see what was going on ahead, the lance point jabbed at him once more, and this time it scratched his chin, making him yelp at the sudden touch of sun-warmed, yet still cold steel. "What was that, worm?"

And then, without a warning, there was a sharp snort from the roan, a sudden flurry of black where the mercenary's head had been, hooves beating the air, and the man slipped out of the saddle limply and crashed to the ground beside Gavroche, blood running over his face. The roan screamed and bolted, galloping off back towards Lower Rosendale. In its stead, a huge black stallion was now looking down at Gavroche out of gentle dark eyes, whickering softly.

"Grim!" Gavroche cried, hardly able to believe his luck. "Whiskers!"

Leaping down lightly, Javert was with him immediately, squatting down at his side. "What in the name of all demons are you doing here, boy?" His voice sounded harsh, his breath was ragged, and some strands of near-black hair had slipped out of his ponytail and fallen over his face. Only when Gavroche heard a clattering sound beside him, he realized that Javert had been carrying a drawn sword. "Here, show me your hands."

Gavroche tried to tell the story of the sudden attack on Lower Rosendale, but a sob constricted his throat. "I… I wanted to… to visit Balan and Muri, and then…" He did not come any further. Instead, he let his head sink against Javert's shoulder, clenching his teeth as his saviour began to pluck out the pebbles still stuck in his palms. "Thanks," he murmured into his rough leather vest.

"You'll have to thank Grim," Javert said, "he's a real warhorse. I just make him rear, and he knows what he has to do."

Twisting his head around to look up into Grim's gentle eyes, Gavroche could barely believe that the stallion might be a battle horse. He had never hurt the boy in any way, not even when Gavroche had tried to braid his mane. He had only nudged him away gently. Was this the same horse who killed a man by kicking in his skull?

"Let's see about the rest of you." Javert pulled him up onto his knee, inspecting the damage done to his trousers. "Hm, that doesn't look good."

"I didn't mean to!" Gavroche sobbed into his shoulder. "I tried to take good care of them, I really did, but then this stupid big man came…" He should have listened to Javert and picked a pair of old trousers instead, then the new ones would not have been torn on the very first day he wore them!

"Never mind the trousers, I'm talking about your knees." Reaching in through the gaping hole in the cloth, Javert removed yet another pebble, and Gavroche winced as a stinging pain shot through him. How could a small thing hurt so much?

"Am I going to die?" he murmured.

"Of course not, silly. It's just a whole lot of cuts and scratches."

"But it hurts like my legs might fall off. And my hands."

"That's what such things do." Javert put him back to his feet gently. "Now listen. Go to the nearest well and wash this out carefully, I can't pick out every bit of dirt, and I have to get to Lower Rosendale with the others. Then hide in the forest until this all is over."

"But Whiskers, you can't go to Lower Rosendale!" Gavroche protested. "It's burning!"

"I can see that. Run along home before Rosendale ends up burning too." Picking up Théodore, Javert dusted him off, then shoved him under Gavroche's arm. "Here, hurry up."

"Javert?" It was Sophia, looking down from a dapple stallion's back, wearing a man's vest and breeches with her embroidered blouse and a leather cap on her head like a helmet, with a braid hanging out from beneath it. She held a bloodied sword in her hand. "We're moving on, catch up with us when you're done here. Orvar must be in there still."

"He is," Gavroche hastily assured her. "With Talir and Morcas and some others, and he killed a big toothy lizard thingy!"

Sophia smiled briefly. "So did your friend here. Run home and take what you can carry, then hide and wait. Javert, I'll see you back in battle." And with this she heeled her stallion into a gallop, a column of riders from the village, many of them men working for her on her farm, following her closely, clutching swords and spears, but also scythes, hayforks and similar tools.

"You killed a lizard thingy?" Gavroche repeated, awestruck. "Oh man! Can I have a tooth?"

"When this is over." Javert was back on his feet now, his sword in his hand once more, already gripping Grim's reins. "By the way, Sophia killed two. They were with a small group that tried to sneak up on us in the main village, but we dealt with them already. They're concentrating their main stroke on Lower Rosendale, it seems, where all the large cattle farms are. They're herding the beasts off." Swinging himself back up into the saddle, he patted Grim's bowed neck. There was a long, bloodied tear in his left sleeve, Gavroche saw now, and the blade was soiled with blood as well. "Run home now, and stay out of trouble."

"But Whiskers, I don't want to run!" Why couldn't his stupid eyes stop overflowing for once?

"Run!" Javert repeated. "Wash out your wounds, or do you want to die of blood poisoning? I'll see you when I get back." And with this he turned Grim and heeled him into a gallop, following Sophia and her men.

"Take care of yourself!" Gavroche shouted after him. "Come back in one piece!" But Javert did not turn anymore.

"There he goes," Gavroche muttered to himself as he trudged off towards Rosendale. "Plucky lad, that Whiskers." He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, careful not to touch his palm. "But hide? In the forest? Me? Nah! Never! Or what d'you think, Théodore? Do we hide? Do you think we should really – ew!" He was standing in a puddle of blood that was oozing from a severed neck, the head belonging to it lying a few paces away. "Blimey, look at that!" he exclaimed, regarding the gory sight with horrid fascination. "You can actually see the bone! Awesome!" Here he paused and pressed his lips together, frowning. "What, Théodore?" he continued after a moment's thought. "You find _that_ awesome? I'll tell you something: You're a very sick person, or rather, a very sick bear. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." He nodded gravely. "Besides, now my shoes are all bloody, and they were fairly new too. Whiskers might be angry. Maybe about the trousers, too, once he's had the time to think about it. Oh dear. He might make me clean the privy again or something."

Wrinkling his nose, Gavroche cautiously stepped over the body and avoided another that lay closely beside it, with dark brown skin and a mane of black that covered his face. "Seems they come from all kinds of places. Whoa." There were several more, of all sizes and skin colours, most of them dressed in rough, dark leather, some at the side of the road, some in its middle, and three horses too, lying there with their legs seeming oddly tangled. The column of riders had never gotten as far as Rosendale.

And there were some who would never go back there. In the middle of the road, on his back and with his arms spread wide, sightless eyes staring up into the sun… His name was Varin, Gavroche knew, and he was the youngest son of a farmer called Danil and a good friend of Bahorel's, often seen at his side. He would never raise a tankard again. A couple of paces away, on his side, one of Master Wenslow's apprentices had closed his eyes forever. Despite the gaping wound in his uncovered head, he looked oddly peaceful. And over by the roadside, curled up as if asleep, yet with his hands clutching at a deep slash in his stomach, his features still contorted in a scream that no one would hear… Narmon. Orvar's friend and former companion in arms. Surely he had slain many a foe, saved many a life before he had died himself. His sword was lying beside him, the blade broken in two.

A couple of horses were grazing at the edge of the road, on the patch of grass between road and fields, all saddled, some with bowcases, quivers and smaller weapons still peeking out of saddlebags or hanging from the saddlebow.

"Where have they gone, Théodore?" Gavroche murmured, making his way through the fallen men, trying not to look at the dead that came from Rosendale. "On to some other place like this? Or back to old Earth? Do you think they'll come back here one day? There are stories about people coming back, you know." Almost picking up a lance someone had dropped, he decided differently after a look at his bleeding palm. "No, no need to answer. You have no idea anyway, because your head is all filled with rags and you can't think, and even if you could you wouldn't be able to say anything. That's too bad. Stupid bear, you. Do you believe in blood poisoning?"

At this thought he stopped short. Blood poisoning. He had heard about it before, and it sounded rather serious, and highly unpleasant as well. "Do you think one can really die of blood poisoning?"

Oh.

"I don't want to die of blood poisoning!" Gavroche shouted at the clear summer sky, into the cool wind that took the words from his mouth and carried them on towards the forest. "It's a stupid thing to die of!" And then, ignoring his aching knees, he started to run.

Once a pair of riders passed him heading in the opposite direction, two farmers from Rosendale, but they did not heed him and he did not heed them. The main village lay before him, its framework houses and dusty streets as they always were, showing no sign of blood or fire.

Not yet, at least.

He almost fell over a ginger cat racing across the road, but apart from that, he at first saw no living being. Could it be that everybody had either fled to the forest or else gone to Lower Rosendale? Why hadn't he met any more people on the road, then?

Perhaps because they were going across the fields. Yes. They did not want to be so easily seen and crept through the little paths between the fields. They had all gone to Lower Rosendale to fight.

And he was to hide in the forest with the children!

"I'm not going to hide," he panted as he reached the large well opposite Yorel's inn, three long metal spouts gushing clear water forward, left and right into a large stone basin shaped like an octangle. "I'll just wash my hands and knees so I won't get my blood poisoned, and then…" He actually managed to giggle once more as he deposited Théodore at the edge of the basin to hold his hands under one of the spouts. Norgard, here I come!

But then Varin's empty eyes and Narmon's contorted face appeared before his inner eye once more, and he wished to be far away, in a place where no one was killed and Norgard was but a myth to scare small children.

The cold water hurt on his bleeding hands, but he clenched his teeth and held them under the spout still, until he could see no more specks of black that signified small splinters of rock or dirt particles. Then he kicked off his shoes, glad that he was not wearing socks, and with some difficulty climbed up onto the basin's rim, where he rolled up his trousers past his knees, careful not to touch anything with his sore palms. Shifting around, he hung his legs into the water. "You know," he told Théodore, who was lying on his side and looking up at him out of eyes that actually were buttons, "I might enjoy that, if it weren't for my knees bleeding. Ouch!" Clenching his teeth, he splashed water over the wounds. Curse that man who had thrown him over, and curse that stupid blood poisoning!

Why did this all have to happen on a beautiful day like this?

Why did people have to die on a cloudless summer day?

But they weren't going to get him! Oh no! And they weren't going to get any of his friends! He would keep them from harming them! He would fight them! If Orvar thought a sling was of no use, he was very wrong indeed!

But Javert had said…

Fine. He could go back to the house, hide what needed to be hidden, and _then_ go back.

But still, Javert had said…

No! He was not leaving them alone! He had to help!

_But all the same, Javert had said…_

Swinging his legs out of the water, Gavroche let himself fall back on the ground in frustration. There was a village to be saved, and here he was with sore, bleeding palms, unable to handle a weapon. And furthermore, Javert did not want him to.

And who knew, maybe there was nobody there at the moment, but they might come again, sneaking from house to house with torches, heading towards the place where he lived…

Gavroche started to run, then skidded to a halt, snatched up Théodore, turned to run again, braked sharply as he realized that he was still barefoot. In danger of losing his balance, he caught the edge of the well just in time, muttering curses that would have had Javert raise one eyebrow in that nasty way that could make everyone twitchy after a couple of seconds. Putting his shoes back on seemed a lot more difficult than taking them off. The left one was being troublesome, and he had to tug at its heel with a finger to get in properly. And as he managed to put it back on at last, he accidentally brushed his palm with his ankle and gave a little yelp. "Ow! Stupid foot, you!"

As if in response, a horse neighed somewhere, and there were male voices yelling for a moment, then a scream, then – silence.

Gavroche stared in the direction whence it had come hard, as if intending to make the house before him melt from his gaze, his heart pounding madly. Then he said slowly, just as he had heard it from Javert, "What in the name of all demons was _that_?" It was what one had to say in such a situation, though it would have sounded better had his voice not trembled so much.

Silence again. Nothing but silence.

"Fine," Gavroche murmured. "Fine. I'll just… go home and see… see if anyone was there… if they're trying to break in or something." Or if they're trying to set fire to it… But he did not want to say it out loud. "Don't be afraid, Théodore. Everything's going to be fine."

He looked left and right, then started to run, down along Ivy Lane, past Cotton Walk, past Roses' End… as suddenly someone gripped him by the collar and held him back violently. Gavroche squealed and fidgeted, kicking at his captor, but the hand would not let go. "Stand still, you silly thing," a voice hissed – a voice he recognized.

"Let me go!" he protested. "I'm not some ugly barbarian enemy or four-legged green thing with lots of teeth!"

Indeed he was released, and he spun around to face Jérôme Feuilly. "What did you do that for?" he cried angrily. "You almost tore my collar off, after that foul git of a horseman already ruined my trousers! I'll tell Whiskers it was you!"

"Hush! There could be enemies about." Feuilly raised his forefinger to his lips meaningfully. In his other hand he held a bow, and the top of a quiver was visible over his shoulders, grey-feathered shafts peeking out like a bristling thicket. "Where are you heading?"

"To guard the house." Gavroche tried to stand as straight as possible, but still Feuilly was a lot taller. "Whiskers told me to." It was not quite true, but it also wasn't quite wrong either.

Feuilly shook his head violently, so that his short braid flew. "Nonsense! Run along to the forest, and as fast as possible. The other children are in there already."

"I'm not a baby!" Gavroche protested. Oh, why did his eyes have to overflow again just now? "I want to help! I want to fight them!"

"Here." Feuilly reached into his belt pouch and thrust a small item wrapped in a piece of linen into the boy's hand. "Take this and keep it safe, in the name of Orvar. This should show you I don't consider you a baby. But now, run." His brown eyes were hard as he said it, and so surprisingly dark in an otherwise fair, slightly freckled face and under reddish-brown hair.

Gavroche's fingers closed around the package, and he suppressed a wince as it touched his palm. "I'll defend it with my life," he promised solemnly. Balan and Muri would be so impressed when he told them!

"Excellent. Now run for it. And be careful, there might be an enemy lurking behind every corner."

"How many of you are there?" No, he would not be sent away that easily. He was in no hurry, absolutely.

"Couldn't say, one for every four houses to hide behind. Run, I said. I have to get back to my post."

"Don't you communicate with each other?" Now this sounded exciting, lurking behind houses until an unsuspecting enemy came sneaking along the street…

"I can see Enjolras from my place. And I already shot one off his horse, before you ask. We just dragged him up Roses' End not to arouse suspicion. But now go, or I'll send an arrow after you!" And with this he gave him a firm prod between the shoulder blades. "And keep in mind, this is important!"

Stumbling forward and soon breaking into a run, Gavroche clutched the package as tightly as he dared. There was a scream at some distance, and then the clanging of weapons even closer, but he did not look around. Feuilly would dive back into the shadows of Roses' End now, crouch behind the fence, ready to shoot… "But I have the more important thing!" he told Théodore as he ran. "And I'll keep it safe, I'll go and hide it in the forest, I already know where… And if someone attacks me now you'll have to fight him for me because I have more important things to do…"

Then he suddenly stopped, in the middle of a deserted road, slapping his forehead with the back of his hand. "I'm an idiot! I should have taken Fyalar!" Turning on his heel, he raced back whence he had come, past lines of houses, to the stable he knew so well. Of course it was locked now, it would certainly be, but there always was the window trick… Now, if he rapped the window frame sharply with his knuckles in just the right place… exactly, it sprang open. Giggling with glee, he threw Théodore into the gentle gloom, then climbed up after him, though with some difficulty this time since he could not use his hands and knees so well. Instead of his usual leap over the heap of hay under the small window, he fell into it face first and came up again coughing and muttering angrily, spitting out a mouthful of dried grass. "Bugger! Whoever came up with the stupid idea to put this stupid pile of hay under the stupid window?" As he crawled out of the hay spluttering, he remembered that he had shovelled all the hay just there himself in case he might fall through the window. It did nothing to improve his mood. "It was your idea, Théodore! I know it was! You made me do it!"

He was interrupted by a soft whickering. From the gentle twilight of a small stable, a pair of large dark eyes was watching him curiously. There was room for no more than two horses, and while one of the places was empty, a white-and-brown dapple stood in the other, turning his head and watching Gavroche's progress with open interest.

"Hello, Fyalar." Stuffing Feuilly's package into his pocket and picking up the bear, Gavroche crossed the stable, kicking the hay off his shoes. "We're going out for a bit. To the forest." Though riding in the forest was bothersome, especially to the place he had had in mind… He patted the horse's nose gingerly, only with the tips of his fingers. Why did it have to be his hands, of all things? If Grim hadn't taken care of that nasty man on the road, he would have murdered him with his bare hands!

Which were hurt, so he wouldn't have been able to. Which was the problem, precisely.

"Oh, bugger this all!" Gavroche muttered. "And bugger the saddle! I'm only just using the reins. Here. Hold still… Why does Whiskers always have to put them so high up? Only because he's so ridiculously tall he can't even walk through a door properly… There, got it!" He brandished the reins triumphantly, almost dropping the bear he held under his other arm. "So, come here, Fyalar, good boy…" Hastily untying the rope holding the horse, he put the reins over his head – luckily Fyalar always lowered it while Gavroche did so, or else it would have been difficult – fastened the buckles and then pulled the horse towards the exit. "Here we go, come on… Oh Whiskers, you _monkey_! You could have told me you left the stable door open for me!" Indeed the bar that could be shifted by hand from the inside, while from the outside a key was needed, was not holding the door shut currently. It even stood open a cranny, and a thin finger of daylight fell onto the straw-covered floor. Gavroche gave it an angry kick before he yanked it open so that it crashed against the wall, making Fyalar twitch his ears in alarm. "I think I'll ride over to Lower Rosendale and poke you, once I'm done with Orvar's thingy."

Leading Fyalar out, he pulled the door shut again behind him. Still the streets were peaceful and seemed deserted, yet a little back, past Roses' End, a black-clad figure lay on the ground face-down, an arrow sticking from his back… "Good job, whoever," he muttered before he climbed Fyalar's back. "I wish I had a bow of my own…"

Getting up without the help of a stirrup was difficult, and finding a comfortable position was not easy either, especially when holding a large stuffed toy bear under one arm and having sore palms. As Gavroche sat on Fyalar's back at last, panting and sweating, he wondered whether it would have cost him less time after all to simply saddle his horse. Luckily Fyalar was very patient, he just stood and waited, occasionally whickering and flicking his tail. He shifted his ears uneasily, though, the sounds of combat from what seemed to be just a couple of houses away seemed to unsettle him. For a moment Gavroche wondered if heading there might be a good idea – he still had his sling tucked into his belt, after all – but then he decided against it. In the name of Orvar, Feuilly had said.

As Fyalar galloped out of the village, Gavroche wrapped his arms around his neck, Théodore squeezed in between him and the horse's mane, and held on tightly. If he now fell off, he would just hang there while Fyalar ran on, and he would look terribly ridiculous. Never before had he realized how slippery a horse's back could be… and how scarily tall Fyalar was in comparison to his old pony…

Were there enemies about? He could not see any, but all he saw were some strands of white and brown hair belonging to Fyalar's mane, a pair of pointy brown ears and the edge of the forest coming closer rapidly. To look in another direction he would have to lift and turn his head, but right now he did not dare to. If he shifted his weight just a tiny bit, he might slip off… any moment…

It only took Fyalar a minute to reach his destination, but to Gavroche the seconds crept on endlessly. As the dapple stallion slowed down at last and stepped under the dark, cool canopy of the trees, Gavroche breathed a sigh of relief. His arms hurt, and he was grateful to be able to slip off Fyalar's back at last and lead him further on just by his reins. There were low branches under which Fyalar had to bend his neck; riding would have been practically impossible in here. But they were well hidden, and if they went straight on right now, then they would soon come to –

A soft snort from Fyalar was all the warning he had. Then he was grabbed from behind, and a hand was pressed over his mouth firmly. He struggled, dropping Théodore, but whoever was holding him was stronger than he was. "Keep quiet," a voice hissed into his ear.

Then he was released as suddenly as he had been taken. Spinning around furiously, he looked into a pair of dark eyes not too high above his own eyelevel. "You!" he shouted, fuming. "And that from my own sister!"

Crossing her thin arms, Eponine grinned. She looked just as usual, dressed in a skirt and blouse that had both seen better days, combined with a pair of boots and a belt hung with various small pouches and a large dagger in a sheath. There were at least two more daggers hidden under that skirt, Gavroche knew, probably strapped to her thighs. His sister was a wild girl, and he was secretly proud of her. But at times she treated him just like a child, and he hated that. "What are you stumbling around through the forest for, and in the company of a horse? Shouldn't you have left long ago, with the other children?"

Dropping Fyalar's reins, Gavroche crossed his arms in turn, drawing himself up as much as he could, but she was still taller. "You're just jealous because you don't have a horse of your own! And I'm not a baby! Besides, I'm on an important mission, so wipe that stupid sneer right off your silly face and be impressed, and be jealous, and sulk because I'm not going to tell you! Hah! And now get out of my way, because I'm extremely busy."

"And what mission would that be," she jeered, "saving your toy bear from Norgard's clutches, perhaps?"

"You have no idea," Gavroche told her solemnly, picking up both Théodore and Fyalar's reins again and trying to keep himself as dignified as possible.

"So what? I don't care."

"If you knew what's in my pocket," Gavroche said haughtily, "you would. But you don't, and that's my point. Now let me proceed." That last one was a lovely word and made him feel twice as important.

"You've been crying."

"No I haven't!" Gavroche dodged the hand that reached out to wipe his cheek.

"Don't lie to me. What's in your pocket?"

"Hah! So you'd like to know, eh?"

But to be honest, he had not yet found out himself. Should he have a look, and risk that Eponine might sneak a peek as well? Curiosity got the better of him, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the package Feuilly had given him and carefully removed the linen wrappings. Did it feel heavy? Or rather light? Neither, really, which was a little disappointing. But Feuilly had said it was important…

Something dropped into his awaiting fingertips, an object of cool metal, and a fine metal chain rustled gently as it slipped free. It was a round disc, a little smaller than his palm in diameter and about as thick as his little finger, and decorated with a lion's head, beneath it a pair of crossed swords with a tiny crown above them, and all was surrounded by entwining roses carved into its surface. The edge was set with a line of small, glittering crystals.

"How pretty," Eponine stated. "What's this, Orvar's secret medallion he got from his secret sweetheart?"

"No, you silly girl, it's not!" Now Gavroche held this in his hand, he intended never to let it go again. "Don't you know what it is? It's Orvar's seal! The Mayor's seal! It's more important than you and your bow and quiver and knives and stuff put together! Whiskers borrowed it once when he went to Moorcastle on official business of Dolorin's, and he wore it around his neck on that chain, under his shirt and with his collar up all the way so no one could see he had it! That's how important it is!"

For once, Eponine did not make any snappish remarks in return. Instead, she frowned at the engravings thoughtfully. "Where did you get it?"

"Feuilly gave it to me," Gavroche explained. "I met him on the street, and he told me to keep it safe. And that's what I'm doing."

"Fine," Eponine remarked, "and I'll have an eye on you doing it. Now get back on the path, or poor Fyalar will end up with more than just twigs in his mane."

"You don't understand!" Gavroche protested. "I was going to hide it!"

"Where you won't find it again?" Eponine asked sarcastically. "Seriously, I think you and I and Orvar's seal had better go somewhere together. Is there any way to stuff it inside that bear of yours?" And already her hand had wandered to the hilt of her dagger.

"No! You can't cut up Théodore! I forbid it!" Ruining his bear! What a tasteless idea!

"Just a bit, along a seam! And then we'll push that seal of Orvar's in, and nobody will find it!"

"No!"

"You stubborn little twit!"

"You're not murdering my bear!"

"It's not a living thing, so I can't murder it! Give it here!"

"No!" Gavroche held both the seal and the bear behind his back, somehow managing not to drop Fyalar's reins. "You're a twit yourself, and you're not harming my bear! You're quite as bad as your parents, you really are!" That was one of the worst insults concerning behaviour he could come up with.

"And you're a ridiculous little slimeball just like your father!"

"No I'm not!" Gavroche roared, ignoring Fyalar's seemingly pointed snort behind him. "Besides, he's your father, too, so you might as well shut up about him!"

"And you shut up right now!" Eponine hissed. "Making such a racket! What if they find us? Then they take both the seal and your stupid bear, and it's all your fault."

"It's not! You started it!" This was a pointless quarrel, really, but he could not just stop quarrelling when his sister did not. She might think he had run out of clever things to say, and he would certainly not run out of clever things before she did, no indeed!

"Now be quiet and come on! They might find us here!" Taking him by the arm, she firmly pulled him towards the path she had obviously been following before she had spotted him. "What happened to your hands, by the way?"

"Some big fat nasty Norgard man pushed me over." Now this was a safer topic; they might well abuse those evil attackers together. Alone with Eponine, he was not frightened any longer, but still as furious. "They do come from Norgard, don't they? And then Whiskers came and had Grim kick him to death. Boom!" Served him right for ruining a new pair of trousers!

"I think they do," Eponine agreed. She had let go of his sleeve now, and together they followed the narrow path deeper into the forest. "Everybody says they do. No idea who said it first, but someone must have." She shrugged. "They concentrate on Lower Rosendale, mainly, I think. One of the men said it, I heard it when I came to collect some more arrows. There were a couple of attacks on the actual village, too, but not too many men. Odd, isn't it? Well, I don't know. People will do random things sometimes."

"True enough," Gavroche agreed readily. Javert always said he and Eponine were the most random pair of siblings he had ever met, whatever he meant by this.

"I was with Cédric and his friends. Cédric fought very heroically."

Ah, the subject of Enjolras again. Eponine seemed mightily impressed with him, in Gavroche's opinion. "So why are you here?"

"To protect the refugees, of course." Eponine drew herself up proudly and threw him a look that indicated he would be very sorry indeed if he doubted her word. "Cédric sent me. Nobody comes past this spot without me noticing, you see."

"And, did anyone try?" Gavroche pushed the seal back into his pocket, for fear it might slip from his sweaty fingertips and fall either to the ground or onto his wounded palm.

"Only one, an ugly fat one who came after a group of girls. I hit him in the shoulder, and he gave up the pursuit. Lost me a good arrow, but was worth it." She ran her forefinger along the rough linen of her quiver thoughtfully. "I wonder how a warrior can get fat. A real warrior, I mean."

Gavroche shrugged. "You probably got a fake one." All the same, he was proud of his sister, even if she had not managed to kill the man, with one single shot and so that he fell over, whirled up a little dust perhaps, but was quiet immediately, like it worked in the stories. Well, it was not as easy as he had once imagined it would be; he had tried his luck with Javert's bow a few times but never had hit any target. His sole consolation was that Javert was not an expert shot, either, though his arrows always came close to the target, he missed quite a few times; he just lacked the precision that some others possessed, like Sophia, for example, or Talir and Orvar. When Gavroche laughed, Javert always grumbled one should get him a pistol to prove he could aim better than that.

And Valjean. That new fellow had astounded everyone at the village feast by winning the second prize at the village feast's bow competition, and that only after one afternoon of practice. A natural talent, Orvar had said. Besides, Valjean had won the table-lifting contest, which made him the strongest man in the village. No doubt he had killed a lot of enemies now, and was still doing so!

Gavroche wished someday Orvar would accredit him a natural talent too, even if it were just for causing mischief.

"We'll stop here," Eponine decided, taking Fyalar's reins from her brother and leading the stallion behind a thicket, where she loosely tied him to a low branch. "Come on, sit down here. We can peer out through the twigs and watch the path without being seen."

We. She had said _we_. So there was yet another useful thing for Gavroche to do. Squatting down beside his sister, who had already made herself comfortable with her back against a tree trunk, he felt for his sling and was calmed to find it was still there. There were no pebbles here, but a few other things he might use, even if it was only a thick piece of bark. Bark could be nasty, bits might come loose and hurt an enemy in the eye – if he managed to hit anyone with it, that was.

He wondered where all his friends were, and how they were doing at the moment. Would they manage to withhold the invasion and to keep the men of Norgard from setting Rosendale on fire?

Maybe he should have taken some things from the house in case they did. Actually, Sophia had explicitly told him to do so, and Javert had probably meant the same.

Please, please don't let anything happen to the village, and to all my friends…

How long they crouched behind the thicket he could not have said later on. It seemed a long time, certainly, but if it had been just one hour or two or three he could not determine. Soon he began to feel tired and sore, and sitting still was becoming more and more unbearable. More than once he was close to getting up and running back to Rosendale to see what was going on there and if he could perhaps save someone or help in any way, but Eponine held him back, reminding him that he had to keep the seal safe where no one would find it, and to guard it for Orvar. He stayed, but he suddenly wished someone else had gotten that package from Feuilly. What if nobody ever came here, and they had to sit in the forest forever? What if Rosendale ceased to exist and all his friends were killed or enslaved, and he never found out because he was not there? It was a horrible thought.

At last, when he had begun to believe he would never see a living being again apart from his sister and Fyalar, Eponine nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. "Someone's coming!"

Gavroche tensed, fumbling for his sling, but Eponine held him back. Why did she not ready her bow? What was the matter? Did she mean to simply hide and let the enemy pass? He just wanted to protest when she suddenly sprang up and left their hideout, just as a head became visible through the leaves before his eyes…

Morcas! And there, behind him, Orvar himself! Blowing out the breath he had not realized he was holding, he let himself sink back to the ground. Was it over, then? Was it over at last? What news would they bring?

"Orvar!" Eponine was rushing towards them already, towards the tired, ragged group that came marching along the path. Of course, she was taller than Gavroche, even when she sat, and must have seen who was coming before he could. "Did you repel them?"

But Orvar only shook his head wearily. "No. Me and the rest, we're hiding 'til they leave."

No! This could not be true! How could Orvar give up? How could he forsake Rosendale? "You're _fleeing_?" he cried, running towards them after his sister. He almost stumbled over a root, but paid it no heed. "What about the people? What about Rosendale?"

Orvar's eyes met his, and his grim gaze silenced him immediately. It seemed that the scar on Orvar's cheek stood out more clearly than ever, but maybe this was because there was a fresh wound beside it, a cut from which blood was trickling into his beard. "A wise man knows when to retreat," the Mayor said calmly. "The death toll is high enough as it is. All they care about is the cattle… and those men who opposed them most fiercely."

Swallowing, Gavroche regarded Orvar and the men around him and the handful of tired, sweaty horses some were leading, then hastily let his eyes rest on his own feet. There was something forming inside his chest, a lump that was growing, covered with spikes… Once again his eyesight blurred as tears began to well anew. Was this what defeat felt like?

"Then we should have died!" a clear voice among the group rang out suddenly, shaking with barely constrained fury. Flanked by two of the veterans who had served in the King's army along with Orvar, Enjolras stood, his blond hair tangled and bereft of its usual gleam, his face smeared with a mixture of soot, sweat and blood, his vest and shirt torn and stained, but still he stood upright and glared at Orvar with utmost defiance. "Then we should have chosen the path of the heroes and given our lives for what we love!"

"Then go back and die, you fool," Orvar bellowed, his voice sharp as a whipcrack in the silent forest. Even the birds were quiet now. "Go and throw your life away uselessly. I won't keep you."

Enjolras drew a shuddering breath. "How can you live under the shadow of Norgard?"

"I can, for now," Orvar replied coldly. "And if I can, boy, you bloody well can as well."

"Retreat for now," a female voice said from the background, "and live to fight another day." The line of men at the front parted, one pushing aside his horse, and out stepped Sophia, a blood-stained blade still in her hand. She had lost the leather cap she had worn when Gavroche had encountered her on the road, but apart from that she appeared unchanged. Directly behind her Javert followed, and Gavroche wanted to leap at the sight of him, though with joy or with horror he could not have said. For the first time it seemed to him that his friend looked pale, despite his dark skin, and the way his jaw was clenched… His shirt was dark with blood at his left upper arm, and the stains continued downwards along the sleeve, out of which blood was dripping onto his hand.

"Where are the others?" Orvar demanded.

Eponine pointed ahead. "This way. On the clearing or close to it, at least most of them. Can they return now?"

"Soon, I take it. As we speak, they're herding off part of the cattle, and they seem to be in a hurry. We kept them far too long, it seems; they did not expect so much resistance."

"Does the village still stand?" Gavroche asked anxiously. Please say yes, please…

"Mostly. It's pretty bad down at Lower Rosendale, but the rest is pretty much unharmed. Curse them, they knew exactly where the largest cattle farms are." Orvar spat on the ground. "If we were to find a traitor among our own men now, it would not surprise me."

"Everybody can see where the large stables are," Sophia put in. "I wouldn't be too rash."

"And not too gullible, either." Orvar gestured to the men on his right. "Ten of you, come with me. Morcas, you pick, and mind you don't take the wounded. Sophia is left in charge here. We're going to the clearing. You too, girl," he added, nodding at Eponine.

"Wait!" Gavroche cried as he turned to go. How could he not have thought of it for so long? "I have something of yours." And he held out the linen-wrapped seal.

Orvar accepted it without any closer inspection; he seemed to recognize it immediately. "Thank you, boy. You're redeemed. Morcas, are the men ready? Fine, then, follow me." And off they marched, deeper into the forest, Eponine falling in behind them, beside Enjolras.

There were about fifteen left, Gavroche estimated, all men except Sophia, and six horses, which were now tied to branches. Grim he tied himself, right beside Fyalar. As he returned, some of the men had already settled down on the mossy ground, and some were tending to their own or others' wounds. Bahorel was among them, he suddenly realized, sitting there beside Morcas with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring ahead into nothingness.

Javert had taken his place on a rock, his vest and sword belt lying on the ground beside him, with Sophia and one of her stablehands fussing over him, trying to get him out of his shirt to have a look at his arm. "It's just a scratch," he grumbled, weakly attempting to fend them off.

"Yes," Sophia said dryly, "and a _big_ scratch. Stop being silly and let Teril have a look."

At last he agreed, and soon the man was bandaging him with strips torn off the already ruined sleeve, muttering as he did so, while Sophia began to clean her sword. Sitting down closely beside him, Gavroche imitated Bahorel's pose. "Are you alright?" It was supposed to sound calm, but came out as squeaky.

"Couldn't be better," Javert growled, but as he briefly ran his hand over Gavroche's head, the boy knew that his lingering fury was not directed at him. "At least you really got out of trouble; all the time I was worried you wouldn't."

"Is it true there are so many dead?" It was hard to believe, even when seeing part of the wounded before him.

"We can't say how many, at the moment," Sophia replied in Javert's stead. "I know that I lost at least five of my own men, and I saw several others slain, but I couldn't give you a number. Orvar lost several of his friends, too, including Talir. At least it seems they were only fighting those who fought back and not attacking the women and children putting out the fires." Of course, someone like Sophia wouldn't even dream of being counted among those women; from the competitions at the village feast Gavroche knew that she wielded her sword as well as any man. "And we don't know how much cattle they came for, but it's their main interest, apparently. That, and a handful of warriors to be taken captive, if they can get any."

"How d'you know about the warriors?"

With a sigh, Sophia sheathed her sword. "A column of riders passed through Rosendale, heading south, when suddenly a man came galloping into their way and stopped them. It seems he was the leader, and one of Enjolras's lads who was lying ready to ambush heard him say quite clearly, _Get me Orvar_. They complained they were on another errand, but he told them to keep their eyes open and gave them a short, but very accurate description. He also told them to keep in mind that those who resisted most fiercely were to be taken alive if possible and taken back to Norgard. They said they doubted they were to meet anyone on their errand, but he insisted that they should carry out the order if they did. Then they rode on south, and he turned his horse and headed east towards Lowford."

"D'you think…" It was a terrible thing to imagine. "D'you think he was the Sorcerer?"

"No," Sophia said decidedly. "He clearly led the attack, probably on all of the villages, but I doubt he did magic of any kind. I saw him too, a tall blond fellow wearing one of those browbands they wear in the south and with a couple of beads in his hair, but clearly a northerner, judging from his pale skin. Orvar thinks he's Rendon Paric."

"Who?"

"Rendon Paric," Sophia repeated. "He served along with Orvar once, before he left the army and became an outlaw. Now he's a well-known leader of mercenaries. Apparently whoever rules Norgard has taken him into his service. We don't know if there's a Sorcerer, Gavroche, but Paric alone is bad enough."

Silence fell, and although there were a few birds singing in the tree crowns above, it seemed to Gavroche that the forest was dark, darker than ever.

"I brought you something," Javert said suddenly. "You wanted one, so I got you one." Reaching into the pouch that lay on the ground along with his sword belt, he picked out something and held out his hand for Gavroche to take it. It was a long, curved tooth, larger than Gavroche's little finger.

Placing Théodore on the moss and accepting it from Javert cautiously, Gavroche held it up to examine it, a true torrent of different emotions welling up in him. "Oh, Whiskers…" He had actually brought him back a lizard tooth! And then it all became too much for the boy. Clutching the tooth tightly, he climbed onto Javert's lap, although he was too old for it and everybody was watching, wrapped his arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder, for Jolly Tom, whatever had happened to him, for Varin and Narmon, for Talir, for all the others who had died, and most of all for Rosendale.


	8. Every Man must choose his Way

**8. Every Man must choose his Way**

"And then," Gavroche announced, "then we'll ambush them from behind, while they're trying to ambush us. That'll teach them, bet it will!"

"It's not going to work," Javert stated, watching the thin columns of greyish-white smoke ahead without breaking stride. They were the only signs that four days ago Rosendale had been overrun.

The men of Norgard had left the village soon enough, after herding off about a quarter of its cattle and sheep, but they had not left the valley. Beyond the forest along the Greengrove road, they had met up with another part of the army that had not participated in the attacks at all, but made camp instead, a wide, sprawling encampment encircled by palisade fences, and their patrols, always four or five men on foot, two messengers on horseback and one of Norgard's giant lizard spawn, were making sure that nobody strayed too far from their native village.

It had been a complete surprise move. Although, as Javert knew from Sophia, scouts had reported a growing colony of mercenaries up in the mountains as early as half a year ago, nobody had expected Norgard to strike that fast, before the merchant train's arrival even. Orvar had said it was not only foolish, but plain madness to attack when expecting a whole train of highly trained merchant guards in a matter of a fortnight. And this was what irked Javert to no end: Why had they done it after all, then? For every crime that was committed, there was a motivation, a reason. There was a reason for everything, even for the tiniest detail. But why this early attack, then?

"They must have run out of resources," Orvar had assumed when the two of them had hidden in the undergrowth by the Greengrove road this morning. "There is no other explanation." Javert had nodded to this; it had made sense. But on the other hand… there existed an actual settlement up in the mountains, certainly able to keep a large number of men alive. And moreover, why should an army just make camp in the valley and then do nothing at all? He had spent very little time in the field himself, and his knowledge of military matters was limited, but Orvar had been a soldier, and Orvar had estimated that there were between four and five hundred men out there in the meadows, only part of the force of the mountains, just waiting for whatever signal was about to come. Did they mean to waylay the merchant train? Could there be so much use in that? All merchant unions had storehouses at Moorcastle, safe behind city walls, as well as south beyond the border; they would bring very little gold as they passed the valley, certainly not enough to make it worth a whole campaign with its immense expenses, and the true wealth, if it could be called thus, flowed into Rosendale not in the middle of summer, but in autumn when the harvest was brought in and taken to market at Moorcastle. Furthermore, mercenaries grew restless when kept waiting for too long. Was it really in Norgard's interest to have them pillaging and looting all over the valley and beyond, with no chance of rebuilding their ranks in time once they were joined by the remaining army to invade the Kingdom? For now this host had left Norgard, there still were over a thousand left there, from what the villagers had learned from spy reports.

Too many questions in this crime. Too many missing clues and answers. And the only one who could have helped them, their man in Norgard, was dead. There was another, apparently, who had given them word of his discovery and immediate death, but this mysterious man had not sent anything since then, not ever again. For now, there were no answers to all those riddles. No answers at all.

Gavroche's sigh mirrored Javert's thoughts quite well. "Is it true that they burned the bridge that leads out to the border?" the boy asked after they had went on in silence for a little time, a silence filled with nothing but the sound of their marching feet on the road. The Crown of Stone was looming into a flawlessly blue sky ahead.

"I'm afraid so." Where the Hyavanda River marked the Kingdom's south border, a deep ravine a few miles to the south of Rosendale, a wooden bridge had spanned the chasm, leading into the deserted borderlands of the Seafarers' realm of Hyavand, wide woodlands and rocky hills all the way to the Jade Sea many leagues away. But scouts had found that the old bridge had been destroyed at the same time as the villages had been overrun. The contingent of riders passing through Rosendale and doing so surprisingly little damage there had been given a different errand to fulfil.

Another question to which there was no answer. Of course, south might be a choice for an escape route as well as north, but why cut it off so completely? Trading with Hyavand was vital for the Kingdom. Did Norgard mean to destroy its enemies in this way? Moreover, the merchant train would be kept in the valley this way, increasing its population and especially filling it with able warriors. There had to be a plausible reason behind this all, but what was it?

"So we're locked in."

"Metaphorically." Damn it, there had to be some logic in this!

"You and your long words." At least it was an attempt at humour. Quite against his normal nature, the boy had been unusually subdued all day. Javert thought he knew the reason, but he had not yet touched the topic. Surely the boy would speak when he was ready.

Their boots kicked up clouds of dust that lay over the road like thin veils for a little while before they disappeared again. Rain had been scarce in the valley recently.

"Look!" Gavroche called, but Javert had spotted them earlier already: Through the high grass to the right, between the sparse scattered clusters of bushes, a group of men were approaching, and they were heading straight towards them. Cédric Enjolras, Nicolas Combeferre, Jean-Claude Courfeyrac, Louis Joly and Eugène Bahorel. See there, all the ringleaders together in one place. Except Joly, of course, who had apparently lost his eternal companion, Emile Lèsgles. But Bahorel could be counted as a ringleader in his own right, though of a different kind, so it was true for the rest. Every single one was armed with a knife or dagger, and Combeferre additionally carried a bow.

The mercenaries had taken away what weapons they had found, but they had not truly bothered to search properly. At least that foolish Enjolras had lost his sword to them, which had given Javert a little satisfaction at least. After all, an idiot with romantic dreams of heroism who had a sword was a dangerous thing. He had successfully evaded both capture and being disarmed himself; he still wore his own sword buckled on in addition to his dagger, and he had kept his quiver safe as well, along with the bow Gavroche had been allowed to carry.

But the most noteworthy thing about the rebels was that for once it was neither Enjolras nor Bahorel who was leading them. It was a wolf.

Javert quietly waited for them to reach him, observing the wolf's nervous prancing. Running ahead, the animal would then turn again and caper back like a hectic goat, yapping and whining impatiently. It was one of the younger animals, a slender female with dark fur that had caught Javert's attention a few months back already for both her vivaciousness and her complete lack of shyness, one of those who needed no persuasion in sausage-shape at all to slip into houses. Born inside the stable of a farmhouse Enjolras and his friends inhabited, she had come into close contact with humans so often at an early age already that she probably considered them just another category of wildlife that wasn't edible but nonetheless was able to provide quite a lot of edible things. A few paces from the road, the wolf suddenly leapt forward, briefly put one of her paws on Gavroche's knee in a peculiar kind of greeting, then nudged Javert gently. Squatting down beside her, he ran his hand over the animal's head. When he compared himself to any creature, he usually thought of a hound, but inside every hound slept a wolf.

"Hello there, pals," Gavroche cried merrily, though there still was a more serious note to is voice.

"Good morning," Enjolras replied stiffly, although it was going on midday already. Javert knew he was glowering at him without even looking up. Some people just were so predictable.

"You'll be on your way to check the slings, I take it?" Courfeyrac inquired, sweat moistening his sandy-coloured curls and gluing them to his forehead and temples. "See if you caught any rabbits?"

"Just like you." Javert got back up, but made sure not to hurry. Not for silly boys with delusions of grandeur, not for fools who naively believed they were heroes. Keeping his face straight was hard enough with them sometimes. And it seemed that it was much the same for those foolish lads; Enjolras was giving him his usual bright-eyed glare. Javert knew that some of the girls at the village would sigh and melt at that look, but all it really was, was plain ridiculous.

"Perhaps it would be best if we went together," Combeferre suggested. He was wearing a frown as well – and his blue neckerchief, despite the heat – but not the kind of unfriendly frown Bahorel was wearing as he looked up at Javert suspiciously. Concern, if he was any judge.

Enjolras shot his friend a sideways glance as he thoughtlessly brushed a long blond strand out of his eyes, and his eyebrows wandered down a fraction before he shrugged. "Well, tell him."

"No need to." Javert waved it away lazily. "The wolf means to show you something, so you decided to forget about the slings for a moment. And you're worried it might be something important, so… you ask me to accompany you." _You need someone to handle it for you_, he had meant to say originally, but he was not the kind of man to pick fights, especially not in front of the boy.

"Yes," Combeferre agreed, "exactly." His smooth, youthful features were earnest, and it seemed he did not notice the droplet of sweat slowly running down out of his brown hair down over his temple.

"Agreed." If the wolf really had found more than just a tasty morsel of meat or a particularly large stick she had not managed to drag along to her siblings all by herself, it was best if Orvar learned from someone less excitable and more trustworthy than Enjolras.

"Where are we going?" Gavroche asked as they set off through the grass, leaving the road behind.

"Wherever our furry friend is leading us." Into the forest, Javert suspected.

"Do you think someone got caught in a sling?" The idea seemed to cheer the boy up immensely.

"No," Combeferre answered immediately. He and Enjolras were walking alongside Javert. "They're not strong enough to trap a man."

For some time they marched on in silence, only interrupted by the wolf's excited noises and the rustling of the grass around their feet. Strangely, the wolf did not head straight towards the Rosendale forest, but more or less alongside it, past the Crown of Stone, until they reached a place where the ground sloped steeply downwards suddenly. Rock interrupted the line of forest ahead, and abruptly the level of the trees was twenty feet lower down, as if something had fallen out of the sky and struck a steep crater into the landscape, about an eighth of a mile in diameter. It was stood with trees just like the higher ground around it, yet they appeared oddly gnarled, their scanty leaves of a sickly sallow colour, and thickets of thorn bushes clustered around their winding roots like grotesque crouching shapes.

"Good Lord!" Courfeyrac exclaimed as they stumbled down the slope. "She's taking us to Golrath's Hollow!"

"Damn this all," Bahorel muttered. "No one ever goes there, not even animals!"

Glancing at the pale, partially barren branches looming into the air in bizarre forms, Javert understood why the villagers believed this place was cursed. This part of the forest, despite its skeletal pallor, seemed darker even than the groups of high, near-black fir-trees that dotted the Rosendale forest. And while the woods normally were filled with the merry voices of many a bird, this hollow was cloaked in heavy silence, except for the wind singing in dead branches.

Gavroche watched the wolf's tail disappear through a narrow gap in the undergrowth, his lips pressed together firmly. "Do we really have to go in there?"

"You can wait here if you don't dare to." This should take care of the problem.

"Of course I dare to!"

Javert smiled inwardly as he stepped through the narrow gap in the bushes first, ducking beneath pale overhanging branches, their twigs like tiny claws that reached out to become entangled in his hair. He knew how to deal with the boy in a number of subtle ways.

Dry twigs crunched beneath his feet as he moved forward to allow the others to step under the intricate canopy of skeletal branches, a few yellow leaves dangling from them loosely as if they were to fall off any moment, dangling lifelessly like a corpse on the gallows. Behind him, two of the students – Courfeyrac and Combeferre, if he identified their voices correctly – were conversing in a muffled undertone, and although he could not catch the exact words they were saying, it was easy enough to tell that this twilight under pale trees made them uncomfortable.

Nobody ever came here. There were stories about this place to scare children, and not only them, rumours of a nameless fear, an ancient terror that lingered still… He had been here once before, when he had come to this world. From eternity's embrace, he had arrived in a green forest, but suddenly he had stood on a crest of rough rock, and gazed down into a hollow of gnarled trees that had suddenly yawned beneath him as if the land had been smitten with a giant mace. For some time he had sat down on the rock, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, and wondered why the structures beneath him look so oddly as if the massive stone had been melted down to slag and then slowly dried again, taking bizarre shapes at some places. Was this the crater of a volcano that had now long been asleep? Strange that there was no mountain, though, not even a slight hill. He had asked Sophia later on, on one of those evenings when they had sat in the kitchen together with a cup of warm milk, before she had said goodnight and went upstairs as usual, leaving him to sleep on the kitchen bench, by the fire.

It was then that he had first heard the story of Nardilon and Golrath, of Galahir and Grogarad, while the flames had painted bizarre dancing shadows on the kitchen wall. The Captain-Mayor and the Sorcerer, the hero and the enemy. He had listened with interest back then, though it had been nothing but a fable to him, a legend to be told by the fireside. But now, once again in the place where Nardilon had fought his last stand and Golrath had woven his dark enchantments for the final time, he was not certain anymore. After all, at the core of every fable there lay a tiny grain of truth…

And there was something else, too. "It is said," Sophia had told him on this same evening, that one who comes here and first sees the Crown of Stone, then Golrath's Hollow, will become a hero and a great leader of men."

"Nice to hear," he had replied, unfolding his blanket for the night, "but I saw Golrath's Hollow first, then the Crown of Stone. What of such a man?"

She had been silent for a while, and he had turned to see what was the matter. Her face had lain in darkness, he recalled, and only her eyes had gleamed oddly in the firelight. "They say… that he will fall under the shadow."

For some time there had been no sound but that of embers consumed by flames. Then she had reached up to touch his shoulder, which she barely managed to do without standing on tiptoe. "But don't let it unsettle you. I would hate to see a man like you frightened."

"I would hate to see a woman like you superstitious," he had answered, and thought no more of it.

_He will fall under the shadow…_

"Curse those creepers," Joly muttered angrily, violently pulling free of a tangle of vines that lay spread out over the ground like a web. "This is the first time I'm here, and I swear it will be the last as well!"

"This place ought to be cleared up," Enjolras proclaimed, and although his clear voice should have rung out in the silence, it sounded strangely muffled, as if the barren branches swallowed its sound. "Scoured of all evil."

"And how would you do that?" Courfeyrac inquired, bending low under a thicket of overhanging twigs. "Burn it down?"

"Burn it down!" Bahorel repeated. A voice that should have been filled with malicious glee remained dull instead, hollow, bereft of its characteristic tone of large-scale mischievousness. "Destroy it, once we've destroyed Norgard!"

The fool! The mindless, brainless fool! Javert's hands clenched into fists, and he allowed them to, so they would not clench around the moron's neck instead.

"It would be too dangerous," Combeferre put in. At least one who possessed some sense! "The fire might spread all over the forest."

"Hack them down, then," Bahorel suggested impatiently. "And see that something proper grows here instead."

"Nothing does," Combeferre pointed out. "Look around you. If it could, wouldn't it have done so already? Grass grows all by itself, and so do flowers. Most green things do."

There was a gentle rasping sound as Enjolras loosened his dagger in its sheath. "This is a place too evil for flowers to grow."

"It's so creepy," Gavroche murmured, clutching Javert's bow to himself tightly and glaring up at the pale canopy of trees defiantly.

In response, the wind sighed in the branches, and a dry leaf fluttered down gently to land before Javert's feet. But he did not heed it. For a moment he had caught a scent carried on the wind, a scent branded forever into his memory… Rushing forward after the wolf, he yanked aside what seemed to be a curtain of dry yet black ivy, barely holding it open for Combeferre to slip through after him. His sleeve caught on something, but he pushed on, not heeding the snapping of twigs as well as the tearing of cloth he heard. The hound had found his target. All of his own accord, his hand wandered to the hilt of his sword –

"What's the matter?" Combeferre asked behind him, accompanied by a rustling and cracking as he made his way through an overhanging tangle of twigs, the wolf closely beside him now, panting eagerly. Javert did not need her lead any longer.

"Whiskers!" Gavroche protested from somewhere among the students. "Slow down, you with your nasty long legs!"

But he would not, not now. Not when the wind was beginning to pick up again, and that accursed scent increasing… He followed it instinctively, like a hound, just like he would have done in his former life. Yes, there could be no doubt of it. That warm, heavy smell, sweet at the same time as foul, that smell that would fill his nostrils and cling to his clothes long after he had left the place where it lingered, that smell that would follow him even into his dreams and turn them into nightmares…

"Ack!" Bahorel exclaimed. "That bloody place reeks like Satan's behind!"

"I think I recognize that smell," Joly said. Of course. As a medical student, he would have come across it before.

"So do I," Javert stated dryly, without turning or slowing down. "Boy, stay back. This will be no sight for you."

"Why?" Gavroche protested from somewhere behind him, breathless. "What is it?"

Another wave rolled over him, drawing at the same time as nauseating him. "The stench of the morgue."

Before him, the thorny undergrowth suddenly opened into a small clearing, or what would have been a clearing had it not been covered by an intricate canopy of pale branches, intertwining like serpents, cutting off the light of day and leaving nothing but an eerie twilight in which the stems of the trees seemed to faintly glow. In its middle, a mound of rock arose, its surface as strange as those edges of the hollow, in places as bubbly as if the ores of the earth themselves had been boiling. And there, at its foot, a shape that had once been human…

The wolf whined and retreated towards the students.

Javert did his best to breathe through his mouth, but still the smell of decay was like a violent blow to his already churning stomach. Countless times he had been forced to inhale the stench of rotting flesh, and still he had not quite grown used to it. As far as he knew, nobody did. But he had learned to ignore it as well as it was possible. He would not allow anything to keep him from his duty.

And now he was back. He was in the middle of Golrath's Hollow, in the forests of Rosendale, but he might as well still have been in Paris. There was a suspicious death to investigate.

Approaching the corpse cautiously, he inspected the leaf-strewn ground around it attentively, searching for anything that should not have been there. Flies buzzed around his head, plump, black creatures, the only living beings that seemed to prosper in an accursed place such as this, but he did not heed them. After no time at all, they could be found around every dead body. What had happened here, and why? And to whom? The man – or most probably a man – lay stretched out on his back, but his features were disfigured beyond recognition, brown and black and glistening with a reddish-brown fluid one might easily have mistaken for blood, but Javert recognized it as a common by-product of decomposition and paid no further attention to it. The face was changed beyond any chance of identification, but there was something else that told him who this man had once been: Spread out around the head, soiled by the fluids of decay but still clearly recognizable, was a mane of long hair as red as copper.

"You there, Combeferre." Best to use one who was more or less reliable. "Get back to the village as fast as possible and tell Orvar we've found Dolorin."

"He can't," said Joly, coming up beside him, horror written clearly on his brow. "He's taken the boy away a little to be sick."

Indeed the sounds of coughing and retching could be heard from a small distance. Silly thing! Had he not told him quite clearly to stay back?

"God," Courfeyrac breathed. His voice was muffled, yet this time not because of the eerie surroundings but because he was covering mouth and nose with his shirt collar. "So those bastards murdered him after all."

"Why, though?" Enjolras asked. See there, the lad who normally thought with a sword that could be waved dramatically to accompany revolutionary paroles was suddenly using his head. "Why should they kill him? Of what use is he to them dead? Did they think he would become one of the Captain-Mayors of old? It doesn't make sense; Orvar is a far more dangerous opponent to Norgard by far. I'm sure Dolorin would have stepped back for Orvar if it had come to that. I mean, if there's anyone they should fear then it's certainly not Dolorin."

"You have a point there, laddie," Javert conceded. This thought precisely had troubled him for some time, ever since Dolorin had gone missing, and it had troubled Orvar himself as well.

"So why the devil did they kill him, then?" Bahorel insisted. "He was a scholar, damn it, not a warrior!"

"Act of intimidation." It was the only logical conclusion. "And in precisely the place where, according to legend, Nardilon died. They mean to scare us by murdering him just there – though perhaps he was dead before they brought him here, we'll yet have to see about that." It would be well nigh impossible to prove, but it stood to reason. Dragging a struggling man as far as this place in the middle of the night, and without being seen or arousing attention in any other way, certainly was difficult, and simply tying up and gagging him would hardly have worked. Had they hit him over the head, then, or intoxicated him, or strangled him to temporary oblivion, or had they killed him at his own house already? This might be possible; unlike many other villagers, Dolorin did not belong to one of the large family clans that lived all under the same roof, making even a large house appear crowded. Instead, he had inhabited a small wing of a farmhouse alone with his books and scrolls. An easy target, an easy prey.

Overcoming Orvar would be a lot harder. He shared an abode with several other veterans and slept with an unsheathed sword beside his bed, as Javert knew. And as for Sophia… She owned the largest farm of the village; any intruder would have to get past all her workers' quarters first. There was no reason to worry, and Sophia had told him quite firmly that she would feed him to her greedy swarm of pigs if she found him camping out on her doorstep. Besides, the outskirts of the village were well guarded now, and there were guards positioned at strategic places among the houses as well. An assassin sneaking into Rosendale would not come far.

"A scholar," Enjolras repeated slowly, and Javert raised his eyes from Dolorin's still form to regard him a little impatiently. "What did Dolorin know, then, that might be dangerous to Norgard?"

"How to chain Grogarad," Javert replied, not without an obvious small does of sarcasm in his voice. Trying to be clever, Enjolras, are you? He squatted down beside the corpse, turning his back on the young revels firmly. No, there was nothing unusual about Dolorin's garments, just the normal brown and grey, though there was a tear along one sleeve that might be hinting at a struggle. Had Dolorin been sitting up late into the night, still dressed, studying one of the ancient scrolls from the archives? There was a tear in the blackened skin beneath, too, yet that might be just a result of decomposition. The topmost layer of skin was coming off, uncovering the leathery one beneath that was growing slippery and hard. And there was another large tear at the shoulder, and –

Now this was peculiar…

"Do you believe in Grogarad at all?" Bahorel asked after a pause. "Because Orvar says –"

"A fable," Javert interjected. "A symbol of evil. Yes, I know what he says, and I completely agree with him. Shut up about legends and tell me why Dolorin would wear what seems to be a shawl in the middle of summer."

"Poking fun at you, Céd," Courfeyrac observed, quite needlessly. The young fool should have gotten the message when Javert had voiced his agreement with Orvar at the latest.

"Maybe he had a cold?" Joly suggested, squatting down beside Javert and obviously trying to breathe as little as necessary. "I'm sure he never got any medication for it, though, since I know Roshild's patients as well as she does." The lad worked for the village's doctor and chemist, very eager to learn what she could teach him about herbs and concoctions and showing her some tricks of his own in return. "Had he had a bad chill, she'd have had me bring him the usual mixture, no doubt."

Javert nodded. "So you tend to believe in the other possibility too, I take it."

The lad swallowed, nervously straightening his short, wavy brown hair. "Yes, I think I know what you mean."

"But I don't," Bahorel admitted openly. "What the blazes was he doing with that scarf?"

"Being murdered with it," Courfeyrac said bluntly, but his voice shaking with fury. "D'you think they hanged him and then cut him down?"

Almost. You're improving, dunderhead. "Strangulated with it, more likely." He would have to remove the scarf to prove it, though, if the mark was still visible on the swollen, rotting neck at all. There was another way of finding out, though, a method he had learned from a physician at the morgue once. Leaning over the corpse, he was reluctant to do it at first, but then gave himself a sharp mental prod. Come on, you sluggard, you coward, you have touched plenty of dead bodies before! Reaching out, he placed his forefinger delicately beneath one of the sallow, sightless eyes that looked like they might dissolve into slime any moment and tugged down the slippery skin, revealing a patch of surprisingly pink flesh… and just what he was looking for. "See those tiny red dots? They come from ruptured blood vessels. You don't find that on a hanged man, except in cases of lopsided hanging sometimes, and there's nothing hinting at this. He was strangulated on the ground, though if in this spot or somewhere else I can't tell." Letting go, he barely resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers. "In this case, it probably doesn't matter anyway.! They knew who must have done it; the answer _Norgard_ was quite sufficient, and it would even do for the King, if they ever managed to get the report out of the village.

Reaching out once again, he plucked out a strand of red hair. It left the skull easily, there was no need to yank. "Some proof for Orvar," he explained. "That's all I can do for now."

-.-

The rest of the day went by quickly; he and Enjolras were summoned to Orvar and spent considerable time being interrogated while a handful of fearless men was sent to Golrath's Hollow to retrieve the body. There was some argument about the burial; while Sophia insisted on a proper funeral pyre like for the heroes of old and then a mound out on the meadows, Orvar wanted to keep it as simple and discreet as possible not to draw anyone's attention. He went as far as calling Sophia a careless, drama-loving person, to which she responded that he was an overly suspicious dummy who might be able to tell a sword's point from its pommel but hardly was fit to fill Dolorin's place as the Mayor of Rosendale. In the end Orvar managed to overcome her resistance, and Sophia returned to her farm muttering angrily and made Javert take her mounted guard shift on the western fields.

When he returned home at last, night was falling already, and he was grateful to be able to throw off his clothes at last and spend some time soaking in warm water, washing off what he felt was the smell of death still lingering about him. Gavroche offered to prepare some supper and bustled around the tub in what he probably thought was a very important manner and managed a rather good impression of Yorel smugly balancing a dish laden with his finest trifles. Perhaps the kitchen was a bad place for the tub, Javert mused as the boy accidentally dropped a spoon into it, but then again, the other side of the room, beyond the table, was used as bedroom, and moreover was currently piled with clothing that had partly returned from the laundresses this afternoon, partly still had to go there the next day – one was out for several hours and Gavroche managed to let chaos reign in no time –, and dragging the tub upstairs, along with the buckets of hot water to fill it, would be a bothersome thing to do. So Javert lay back and closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore Gavroche's clanking and clattering and hoping to be spared of any more sudden confrontations with cutlery.

The water was comfortably warm, and soon he dozed off, registering only very barely what was happening around him. The sound of bare feet on the wooden floor, pattering this way and that, the store cupboard being opened and closed, a chair being shifted, Gavroche muttering about cheese… The wind whispering in barren branches, speaking with many voices, speaking of Nardilon and Golrath, and of Dolorin… and Dolorin was looking at him out of empty eyes… "I'm not dead yet," those blackened lips whispered, and the mouth that had become a hole in the swollen face smiled for a last time, "I will never die…" But all around him, the wind was laughing, laughing with the voice of a Sorcerer reborn…

_He will fall under the shadow…_

"Come on in, we were just about to have supper. I'm sure Whiskers won't mind."

Javert sat up suddenly, sloshing out water over the rim of the tub. There were voices coming from the door, and soon enough Gavroche came around the corner into the main room… followed by his sister. Oh, damn, did that really have to be now? The boy could have warned him!

"Don't mind him," Gavroche beamed. "He's just having a little nap in the tub, my Whiskers."

"I don't," said Eponine generously. She wore her usual old skirt and blouse and carried her bow over her shoulder. "Hello. Go on bathing, I really don't mind."

Maybe you don't, but I do! "Hand me a towel, boy," Javert growled. Gavroche was not supposed to let anyone in while he was bathing, especially not a woman! Once the girl was gone he intended to have a stern word with the boy, a very stern word indeed!

"Here you are." Gavroche skipped over merrily, and quite unabashed. "Ponine, don't peek."

"I'm not peeking." Eponine had sat down on the window seat, pulling her bare feet under her, and was peering out through the curtains. "Marten just went past with a funny hat."

"That big straw hat of his?" Gavroche giggled.

"Yes, with a sunflower's head on it, and quite a bit of the stem, too."

While they were busy peering out and snickering, Javert used the opportunity to hastily climb out of the tub and wrap a towel around his waist. Too bad he had not prepared any fresh clothes yet. Slipping past Gavroche and hastening up the creaking wooden stairs, he thought he heard Eponine comment that he was less hairy than she had expected. That goose! Hissing a curse, he entered one of the two narrow rooms of the upper floor, the one where he, among other things, kept his clothes and equipment. The old cupboard taking almost the whole width of the room's opposite wall had belonged to the house's former owner already, and Javert sometimes wondered what had been kept in there that an oddly stuffed smell still seemed to linger inside.

He rubbed himself dry, then selected a few items from the various shelves inside the cupboard, which took longer than expected since Gavroche had obviously once again done what he called _tidying up_, but what in fact meant rearranging everything at random so it took Javert some time to find what he needed. Where had that red shirt gotten to? He was certain he had not put it with those that needed washing, so it could not be downstairs. Had Gavroche made another pathetic attempt at stealing it, perhaps? Already devising a ghastly punishment for the boy, he went over to the other room, where he finally found it among Gavroche's jumble of socks and underwear. The boy kept nicking it for some reason, and he suspected it was because the boy had once heard Sophia say how it suited Javert's dark complexion.

Returning to the main room downstairs, he heard Gavroche give an account of the day's adventures in a tone of horribly forced cheerfulness. "The worst stench ever, I swear! Nic Combeferre nearly puked on my boots."

"The other way 'round," Javert corrected wearily, sitting down at the foot of the stairs. He wished the boy had not had to witness this all, especially after what he had gone through in those past days. How much could a child witness before something inside him broke apart?

How much had he seen himself, back in those dark days when he had grown up?

"Don't prattle," Gavroche complained, placing a plate on the table a little more violently than necessary.

"I wouldn't have believed you anyway," Eponine said tartly. "Because Nicolas already told me."

Gavroche poked out his tongue at her.

He was trying to be his usual noisy, cheerful self, but it was obvious enough that he was pretending. Strange that he had not spoken of what Javert suspected was the main reason. Gavroche had seen people slain in combat before, and often enough he had been scared of the dark and all alone. But this time…

And it could happen again. Any day. Any hour. Any moment.

As Eponine said goodbye and left heading towards Roses' End, he escorted her to the door, but absent-mindedly. A thought was beginning to form in his head, a thought that could not be chased away.

On the other hand… The boy needed to be protected, to be safe. The boy needed him more than ever.

Just as much as Rosendale needed him.

During the simple meal waiting for them, Gavroche chattered merrily as ever, but the occasional tightening of his lips and from time to time a hint of a glitter in his eyes told Javert all he needed to know. And then, as the last glimmer of light faded outside, Gavroche's pretended happiness faded as well, and he grew silent, his eyes, pools of darkness in the waxing shadows, staring into nothingness.

They rose quietly to wash the dishes and put everything in order for the night, and Gavroche did not even splash Javert with soapy water, as he always did sooner or later. His expression was serious now, and in the gathering darkness he seemed smaller and paler than ever, and so fragile suddenly…

"Get ready for bed," Javert told him gently, lighting the lantern and placing it on the table, beside the candle. Normally the candle was sufficient for what light they needed to brush their teeth and undress, but he knew Gavroche was frightened of the dark. Deep down inside, everybody was.

And he had not even protested when he had sent him to bed. A sure sign of something being wrong, Javert knew.

As Gavroche crawled under his blanket at last, wrapping it around himself tightly, Javert was still struggling with himself. What to choose? Whom to choose? He knew what he had to do, but could he do it at all? There was no way to take the boy with him, not without endangering them both. Could he leave Gavroche to Sophia for some time?

Sophia would understand. Because Sophia would see the path he saw, just as well as he did.

There was only one choice, really.

"Whiskers… What are you doing?"

"Preparing you a cup of warm milk." He tossed another ember into the flames in the hearth and placed a pot with half the milk they had still left in the hole above. It was his own breakfast milk, but it did not matter. Not now.

There was only what was now. And after that… another life, another reality. So distant and yet so clear.

There was but one path. The choice was made without him truly choosing.

"Warm milk? For me?" There was a moment's silence behind him, probably out of surprise. "Can I have some cinnamon in it? I think there's a bit left."

"And honey. Whatever you like." It was like saying goodbye.

"And no skin, please." Gavroche giggled softly.

"No. Absolutely no skin." Certainly not tonight. "Gavroche, I –" Even facing away from the boy, it was hard to voice his thoughts. He could picture Gavroche's face, pale in the semidarkness, younger than his years and frightened, and he could practically see the expression change… "What if anything should happen to me? You… you had best go to Sophia, she would… do what's necessary and… she'd take care of you, you know that."

"Yes, I know. But Whiskers, _nothing_ will happen to you, d'you hear? _Nothing_." His voice trembled as he said it.

I can't tell him. I just can't tell him.

Reaching out to take the small glass jar of cinnamon from its shelf, his eyes fell on another, practically a viol, containing a white powder…

"Because you can do anything." Oh, this child-like trust in his voice, this belief! Javert knew that Gavroche was thirteen years old, more or less, but sometimes he seemed so much younger.

"I wish this were true," he replied quietly, mixing honey into the warm milk, then adding the last bit of cinnamon. Because if it were, then there would really be no need to be afraid, and for all of the valley. If it were, then he would saunter into Norgard and confront whoever needed to be confronted and drag him before the King, and then go home and spend all afternoon building little waterwheels with Gavroche at the brook. Life could be so much easier if he could.

Well, maybe I can't do anything… but there's still something I'm capable of, and I intend to do it. And then build the bloody waterwheels, or whatever it was the boy came up with.

He fished a large mug from the lower shelf and emptied the milk into it, then hesitated. Once again his gaze returned to the white powder, looking so harmless and innocent…

"It's a bit cold in here."

Javert frowned. If anything, it was hot in the house; it had been one of those days in late June where there was no breeze, just clouds of heat seemingly spread over the land, a heat that lingered long into the night, and besides, the fire of the hearth and that beneath the large old water cauldron had warmed the air inside even more. It was _not_ cold, definitely. "Wrap yourself in your blanket," he suggested.

"Doesn't help."

Stirring the contents of the cup absent-mindedly, Javert drew a deep breath and blew it out again. This was not good, to say the very least. This cold was something in the boy's mind, something that… had to be countered with something else in his mind. Yes, that was the solution. He let go of the spoon and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it across the room to the boy. "Wear this. Yes, to bed, I don't mind. And keep it until… until I tell you I want it back, alright?"

There was silence behind him for a little while as he returned to the mug. Then Gavroche mumbled his thanks, and Javert heard him climb out of the bed, then the rustle of the shirt as he picked it off the floor…

Now or never.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Gavroche was just pulling it on, red fabric clouding his eyesight, and used the opportunity to snatch the powder off the shelf. He tipped just a little of it into the mug, then continued stirring, vainly attempting to banish the feeling of guilt into the darker recesses of his mind. It was for the boy's best, but still it felt like betrayal.

"Will you sit with me for a bit?" How high and thin the boy's voice seemed! The bed creaked as Gavroche climbed back in, then he continued, "Don't think I'm frightened. It's just… I'd just like to… yes, well, to hold your hand for a bit. Call me childish, I don't care. But get your bum over here, will you?" Again he was trying to assume his usual cheeky tone, but this time it did not work at all, even less than it had during the rest of the day.

I can't do this, Javert thought, feeling his lips tighten. I can't. He has never needed me more.

But I have to.

Taking the mug to the boy, he sat down at the edge of the bed. "Here, drink this. You'll feel better, and you'll sleep and forget about everything 'til tomorrow morning when the sun is high up, how's that?"

Gavroche looked up at him with glistening eyes, wrapped in his blanket tightly as if to keep the cold out. As Javert smiled at him, he gingerly smiled back, then propped himself up on his elbows. He really was wearing the red shirt now; his collarbones were visible as sharp lines in a collar that was far too wide for him, even after he had buttoned the shirt almost to the top. To think that he normally slept in his underpants and joked about what a noble thing they were… "Where are they now?" he whispered, instead of an answer. "Is it true that they will come back one day?"

"I couldn't say," Javert replied honestly. Please, just drink your milk and fall asleep! Why did that question have to come just now, just now when time had run out?

Gavroche accepted the mug and zipped a little, but his features did not brighten. "Muri said she would make me a wristband, but she never had the chance, and now I've got nothing to remember her by."

"As long as you hold her in your heart, you can't forget her." It sounded hollow, an empty phrase. Javert had inwardly prepared himself for the moment when Gavroche would speak of the loss of his playmates, Balan and Muri, but now when the boy did so at last, there was no consolation he could offer.

No. He would only make it worse.

"Drink your milk," he said. "Drink it up and then lie down and close your eyes. I'll stay with you 'til you're sleeping." And then…

Gavroche nodded and did so, and Javert took the mug back and pulled the blanket over his little friend, then tousled his hair. He had to tell him, or to say at least something, he had to… but what, and how? "Listen, whatever happens, wherever I go… don't worry because I'll be back, alright? And everything will be as always. Now sleep… sleep…"

When the boy breathed steadily and evenly at last, he rose to his feet once more. The powder had done its work. A medicine meant to give a deep, dreamless sleep, Gavroche had had to take it in early spring when he had been out in the cold barefoot for too long and caught a bad fever accompanied by hallucinations when waking and haunting nightmares when sleeping. Once again it would prevent the boy from waking too early.

With a sigh, Javert made himself turn away and sit down at the table with his back to the sleeping boy. By the light of a candle he composed a message to be left behind, raking his hands through his hair as he tried to summon up what comfort he could give the boy. Yet however hard he tried, his words still seemed wooden to him. He only hoped that after the initial shock, Gavroche would understand.

At last he dropped the feather again and left the table to hurry upstairs, avoiding all steps that creaked. Gavroche was sleeping deeply, but he had to be careful all the same. It did not take Javert long to gather up what he needed and stuff it into a rough bag that he could carry over his shoulder. Then he picked a black shirt and vest and took his heavy black cloak from the back of his cupboard. It seemed that he was going to need it a lot sooner than he had expected. Apart from that, bow, quiver, sword, dagger…

No. He would leave the dagger here for Gavroche. After all, the boy would want something to remember him by, just like he had wished for a token from the friend he had lost in Lower Rosendale.

Quietly Javert placed the sheathed dagger on the table beside the message, then blew out the candle. The moon shone in through the window above Gavroche's bed, covering the sleeping boy with a silver sheen. He lay on his back, one hand on the pillow, the other resting on the blanket, atop his chest which gently heaved with his quiet, even breathing.

Forgive me. I don't mean to.

Forgotten on a chair lay Théodore, his button eyes fixing Javert with an unspoken reproach.

I don't mean to.

Lowering his bag to the floor, Javert picked the bear up and for a moment nuzzled his face into the soft rabbit fur. At least there was someone to stay with Gavroche, even if it was only a toy animal. But he knew from his own experience that such a toy was a consolation to a child who was alone.

There was one more thing to do before he left. It took shorter than he had expected, and surprisingly he did not even feel regrets about it. When he was done, he cleaned up the table, put the mirror away and blew out the candle.

_He will fall under the shadow…_

Time to go.

He placed the key to the door on the table where Gavroche would find it, then quietly slipped out into the night without looking back.

-.-

A shadow detached itself from the darkness and became a man as it stepped out into the moonlight. "Sophia? It's me."

Well hidden in the shadow of the last house by the west road, another figure stirred, a small shape carrying a bow, with an arrow nocked. "You're going to Norgard, aren't you?" It was not a question.

"What choice do I have?"

Behind him, a tall horse became visible, black except for a star-shaped dot of white on its forehead, treading quietly because its hooves were wrapped with scraps of cloth. The animal made no sound, just nudged his shoulder with its muzzle.

"All the choices in the world," she answered earnestly. "Whatever happens, never forget that."

They needed no more words. Briefly they took each other's hand in farewell, then he rode off into the night.


	9. A World that cannot hold

_**Authors' Note:** Celebwen left the production team, and Asharak joined the writers instead. Do welcome him.  
The site ate part of Chapter 6; Dern has thankfully corrected it now. So perhaps it would be best if you had another look at it to read the ending.  
That said... enjoy the new chapter, and we'd appreciate a couple of reviews..._

_-.-.-_

**9. A World that cannot hold**

After three weeks at Rosendale, Valjean felt he had finally gotten used to it more or less. If he was to live here, he'd have to, but still there were times when he felt that this was a dream he might wake from any moment.

When the army of Norgard had suddenly attacked, he had wished he could, even if it were just to return to an empty, lonely room and the knowledge that Cosette had forgotten him. He had been to Lower Rosendale, and he'd faced the assault, but he hadn't raised his hand against anyone. Instead, he had rescued children and animals from the burning houses and barns, and he had helped to put out the fires. He had done all he'd been able to, but for two children he had been too late. Their names were Balan and Muri, and their mother had once owned a cattle farm on the outskirts of Lower Rosendale. Now the cattle was gone, and the whole family was dead, and of the farm nothing remained but blackened ruins. A third of Lower Rosendale had burned down to its foundations, more than half of its cattle had been taken, and a tenth of its inhabitants were dead. Perhaps this was not much in numbers, only just sixteen, but it would have made no change to Valjean if it had been just one single man slain. Life taken was life taken, and it could not be quantified.

Rosendale itself had been spared mostly, and its casualties – twenty-three in total, Orvar had said – seemed relatively high because many of those men had gone to Lower Rosendale to help. But the houses were mostly intact, and the stables still full. Life went on as always, except that there were guards around the village now.

And still, despite the people's attempts at pretending nothing had happened and to hide their constant fear, sometimes it could be felt very clearly how much had changed. Here in Master Wenslow's forge, the losses were painfully obvious. Two of his eight apprentices were dead, another wore his arm in a sling, and of the men who usually took it in turns to work the bellows, three had died, two were severely injured… and one had disappeared. It was Javert's shift Valjean was now taking.

Nobody seemed to know where Javert had gone. Some claimed that he had fled – and were immediately called calumniators by others – while some thought that he might have been abducted by the men of Norgard, just like after the invasion when two men had been taken along towards an unknown destiny. Others were convinced that he was attempting to leave the valley and reach Moorcastle, or even another part of the Kingdom, maybe even that he meant to bring the pleas of Rosendale before the distant King. Maybe Orvar knew, and maybe Sophia did, but they did not speak of it.

All the same, the low hall was as crowded as ever. At the front, towards the door, Master Wenslow's wife was overseeing the forging of horseshoes and nails while working on a piece of jewellery herself. In the middle, three apprentices worked at a large grating, with Feuilly and Bahorel sweating at the bellows. And at the back, an apprentice was making arrowheads while Wenslow himself hammered at a red-hot blade, sparks springing up and dancing in the air before they winked out and dissolved into nothingness. Stripped to the waist and coated in sweat, Valjean moved the handle of the large bellows evenly, making the furnace roar and the steel glow. It was hard work and the forge was as suffocatingly hot as always, but it would take a long time yet for him to tire, and for Morcas to take his place.

And once Morcas had taken over here, it was time to move Fantine's vegetables to the newly raked beds behind the house, and to harvest part of the salad. And then to feed her goat. Fantine let him stay at her house, so he did his best to make himself useful. He had already replaced the door hinges at the entrance and cleaned all windows, and he intended to repair that wobbly cabinet door in the living room as soon as possible. He could do that in the evening, after having helped with the re-thatching of the roof of the house at the corner of the marketplace that had been destroyed during the attack, since he slept in the living room anyway, usually with the cat curled up on top of him. And maybe he could manage to fit a little bow practice into his schedule. In the assault on the village he had killed five of those lizard-like creatures with his arrows as they came charging towards the people forming the bucket-chains, and he felt that his skills might be needed again in the near future, for who knew when the regiments of Moorcastle would come in aid of the Free Villages?

Wenslow's daughter came in carrying another bar of steel, which she deposited beside the apprentice with the arrowheads. "Tell me if you need another one," she shouted over the clanging of the hammers.

"I'll be fine," the lad called back, never slowing with his work, "and besides, you'd rather take them to someone else! They say it takes a mighty lance to kill the Soulless!"

As the beat of Wenslow's hammer ceased, it seemed to Valjean that the forge had grown a lot more silent at once. "Cut this talk," the blacksmith said harshly, the broad knuckles of his uncovered left hand white around the tongs. "There are no Soulless."

"But Father," the girl began, "Norgard is real, we know it is, and the monster spawn… Who knows, if they are there, so might be the Soulless, and so might –"

"Enough!" her father interrupted sharply. "Back to work, all of you!" But Valjean saw as the blacksmith raised the hammer once more that his hand was shaking.

"We might as well say it." The apprentice had put his tools away and was facing his master now, his chin thrust out defiantly. "_So might be Grogarad._"

At once it seemed that all work in the hindmost part of the forge had ceased, and that all eyes were on the lad in the rough leather apron who had dared to defy Wenslow's orders. His words still filled the room, even though he had not raised his voice.

For a full second Master Wenslow's jaw worked silently, then, very softly, he said, "Never, never utter that name again."

"Because it brings bad luck?" the youth protested. "Master, this is superstition! Dolorin always taught us to call things with their names."

Wenslow swallowed. "Listen, boy, Grogarad is a fable, just like the Soulless. Don't spread this kind of talk. Not in times like these."

"But Father," the girl put in once again, "Galahir was real, and he lies buried under the Crown of Stone. Nardilon was real, and they never found him in Golrath's Hollow. Golrath was real, the Sorcerer of Norgard –"

"Enough!" Wenslow suddenly bellowed, and even Valjean ceased his incessant work in surprise. Never yet had he heard the blacksmith speak a loud word. The whole forge had fallen silent at once, and a cluster of helpers had gathered by Wenslow's workplace to listen, among them Yossi, the landlord's red-haired son, who'd been delivering two baskets full of his mother's vegetable bread. "Stop spreading rumours that will only plant fear in the hearts of the feeble! The Sorcerer and his Soulless are a symbol of evil in the stories, nothing more, and so is Grogarad!"

"But you should take into account, Master Wenslow, that there still remains the question of Golrath's Hollow." It was Morcas, leaning against a high water tank with one shoulder in the same calm attitude he always showed, his smooth features as even as they were ageless, thoughtlessly scrubbing a hand through his short hair. "My friends, sorcery is very real, although a rare phenomenon. True, a human does not possess the powers to control the storms, but there are artefacts that do. I've heard of a few in my time, and one I have even seen. With the arcane knowledge of how to wield them, a man can become near invincible."

Listening intently and not without an unpleasant feeling slowly growing, Valjean regretted that he had not inquired about the legends that told of a past war against Norgard. Well, to be exact, he had asked Fantine, but Fantine had not known very much about them, except that Nardilon had been a Captain-Mayor, a rank of war as it seemed, and Galahir a great hero, and that Golrath was the name stories gave to the ruler of Norgard, but Grogarad? Who was Grogarad? He had heard the name whispered before, but there was nothing to connect with it, except a sense of ill foreboding.

"You're not seriously telling me you believe in black magic?" Bahorel interjected, using the break to splash himself with water from a bucket.

"There are energies," Morcas replied calmly, "for which there is no explanation."

"Golrath's Hollow might have been created with explosives," Bahorel insisted. "With the right mixture of powder, you know. Set fire to it, it blows up."

"Not unknown to me." Morcas's voice carried a small note of disdain. "Strange that it would leave such a crater, though, with molten stone and nothing growing there."

"No offence," Feuilly put in, "but what if those stories are just stories, and it was some kind of volcano?"

"I've seen fire-breathing mountains in my time," Morcas said. "They're actual mountains, and their slopes are often green."

Bahorel and Feuilly exchanged a glance, and Bahorel shrugged. Morcas did have a point, there was no denying it. But did this mean, Valjean wondered, that a long time ago Golrath had woven dark enchantments in this valley? Could he believe in such a thing at all?

"Golrath's Hollow is cursed, I give you that," Master Wenslow conceded, wiping his hands on his leather apron. "But apart from that…" He sighed heavily. "Say, Morcas," he then continued in a tone that appeared somewhat forced, "why don't you tell us one of your stories, one of those you just hinted at? It seems everybody is taking a break anyway. I'll finish this blade, you tell the rest a story to take their mind off things. Valjean, if you please?"

But Morcas held up a hand. "I've come to relieve him early. I'm your new bellows-man."

Early? Why? What was the matter? "Did anything happen?" Valjean inquired, the sense of foreboding that had begun to grow at Grogarad's name suddenly increasing.

"Yes, in fact something did." Morcas smiled, but still Valjean felt how tension gripped his limbs. "You see, Fantine's goat ate part of the salad. Wretched thing was not properly tethered and trampled a couple of flowerbeds too."

At once laughter filled the forge as relief flooded the assembled. Valjean had not been the only one by far to be uneasy. If it was just that… Of course, it was bothersome, but compared to the rumours from before, it really was a laughing matter.

"Alright then," Wenslow agreed, "Morcas starts his shift early, I'm as good as done here." He brought down his hammer one last time, then gripped the glowing metal with the long tongs and waited for a moment, balancing it over the furnace, before he thrust it into the water trough. Steam billowed up as the water hissed, and for a moment Wenslow appeared garbed in transparent shrouds before the fog of condensation faded away once more. Not without a small smile of content, Wenslow placed the object on a rack. It was not finished yet by far – Valjean knew now how long it took to forge a sword; after an endless time of working on the metal itself, removing all particles of slag that seemed dark against the glowing steel, the shaping and balancing of the blade was an almost endless and very complicated process – but it was taking shape already, the blade even and already with a hint of a fuller down its length, the crossguard massive and strong and broadening at both ends, the pommel a round knob, like on all the swords Master Wenslow fashioned. Once the metalwork was finished, it would be passed on to the fletcher, as Valjean had learned, who did not only make arrows but also fitted handgrips onto swords. "Yossi, let's see what you brought us, shall we?"

Grinning, the freckled youth stepped forward, and behind him the baker's youngest child, a girl of about twelve, dressed in clothes belonging to one of her elder brothers as usual and carrying a wicker basket full of cinnamon buns and biscuits. Bahorel followed them closely, with the expression of a predator barely restraining himself from pouncing.

"Here, Valjean," Morcas called across the furnace, "your young lady thinks you've got nothing better to do, does she?"

Letting go of the bellows, Valjean meant to correct him, to tell him that Fantine could in no way be considered his _young lady_, but just then she appeared at Morcas's shoulder herself, clad in a light summer dress like the one she wore every day, her golden hair flowing around her head, like copper threads glistening in the light of the furnace, and Valjean hurriedly shut his mouth again, no longer sure of what to say.

She must have heard that, just now.

And his current state only made it worse. Flashing her a smile that probably looked horribly forced, he hastened to kneel down by the nearest bucket of water and splash himself a little to wash off the worst of the sweat that coated him like a second skin, then hurriedly put on his shirt, doing his best to ignore the giggles of some of those around him. He was a little more presentable now, though not much. Oh, that blasted goat!

"Smartening yourself up, are you?" one of the men grinned, a tall, thin fellow with hair yellow as straw, who answered to Nartu, whatever kind of name that might be, and already he had tousled Valjean's hair, to general chuckles.

With a sigh Valjean brushed a few strands of hair back out of his eyes. The people of Rosendale had realised soon enough that despite his strength he would not even hurt a flea, and so a few of them had taken to teasing him from time to time for some reason, maybe for the satisfaction of getting away with chaffing a man as strong as Valjean. Maybe it meant some kind of personal triumph to them, Valjean was not quite sure, but as long as it made them feel better he let them. After all, it was one of very few drawbacks of living at Rosendale.

"Don't fear, ickle Jean-Jean, she'll like you a lot more the way you are!" another called across half the low hall, and this time even Wenslow smiled and the corners of Morcas's thin mouth twitched in amusement. Fantine blushed and pretended to be very interested in the pile of horseshoes Master Wenslow's apprentices had made this morning, while Valjean sighed tonelessly once again. The villagers absolutely refused to be scandalised at him taking quarters in Fantine's living room; if anything, they tended to encourage him in a direction he did not intend to go, and they found it rather funny. At least he was not the only one who had to endure such jokes; only the day before he had once again heard one of the farmers tease Sophia about Javert, but it seemed that Sophia did not mind that teasing at all, whereas Valjean found it embarrassing. Sophia shrugged it away and countered that if Javert really were her lover she would hardly have allowed him to move out, and then she went about her business and still kept showing herself in Javert's company in public, not heeding the silly taunts at all. Probably Valjean would get used to it after some time, and hopefully Fantine would, as she tended to blush furiously every time and barely managed to look at him for the following few minutes.

Already the workers of the forge were settling down in a group near Wenslow's working place, gratefully accepting what Yossi and the baker's girl were handing out, and some were eyeing Morcas hopefully already. "What of your story?" Wenslow's daughter asked at last, and several voices immediately took up the request. "Your story, your story!"

Morcas raised his hands jokingly. "Fine, fine, don't clamour! You're getting your story!"

A collective cheer arose, and Fantine gently and almost imperceptively tugged at Valjean's sleeve. "Let's listen, shall we? Morcas hardly ever tells any stories."

"If you say so…" Valjean shrugged. The goat was probably back in her shed, then. And the flowerbeds could wait.

"Well then," Morcas said again, taking a seat on a chest of scrap metal waiting to be molten down and worked into horseshoes and the like. The others settled down on the floor or on chests and boxes around him; some remained standing in the background. Most were already chewing on a slice of bread or a bun. "Since we spoke of artefacts just now, I can tell you the story of how Orvar and I found the Star of Druria."

A murmur arose among the men and women, which made Valjean assume that the artefact in question was a famous one, or that there were rumours already about this particular adventure.

"It was fifty years ago, almost to the day. I used to serve in the Sixth Regiment then, under Roland of Tyerwal, who was merely a captain back then. Stories had reached our ears of strange things happening in the province of Druria in the east, and I must admit I was curious, so Orvar and me volunteered to accompany the tax gatherers' train across the country. Those were dangerous times back then, half of Druria had fallen under the reign of brigands. The King had sent several companies already, and they were making good progress, from what we heard, but still the roads were not quite safe. We accompanied the tax gatherers to Drurin, the old capital of Druria when it still was a kingdom in its own right. As you can imagine, their work there took up quite some time, and so it happened that we ended up with a week's holiday. Well, what to do? One evening Orvar heard yet another of those strange tales that had made us volunteer in the first place, of people hovering in the air and strange lights up on Mount Dunhill, just a day's journey from Drurin. As it was, we still had a couple of days left, and me and Orvar and three others set out to find out more. It's a desolate place, the country south of Drurin, empty grasslands for several days' journey, with very few hills to make some change in the landscape. Mount Dunhill, now, is a sudden interruption, so to say, not what we'd call a proper mountain here, but definitely a pretty high hill, with surprisingly steep flanks in places. There's a village right below it, inhabited by a handful of farmers who somehow make a living in the wasteland, and there we heard the same things again, of hovering people and hovering cows, of sudden storms and dancing lights at night, near the top of old Dunhill where they said the mouth of a large cave was located. Nobody had been there, though, out of superstition. The Drurians are a peculiar kind, you see, and believe in all kinds of stories about fairies and demons fighting each other all over the place. They firmly believed there was a battle going on up there and refused to set foot on Dunhill's slopes. Even as they told us so, a gale came up very suddenly, lifted the straw roof off a house, and then died away and dropped it again, precisely where it had picked it up, as if nothing had happened."

Morcas paused as there were a few gasps and murmurs from his audience, then he continued. "Now Orvar was a cheeky fellow back then, and that roof incident had stoked his curiosity. _If they think they can wage war on the King's territory_, he said, _they will have to answer to the King's Army._ Eager and reckless as we were, we agreed, and while the villagers crawled into their rabbit-holes in horror, we climbed up the mountain's flank. It was a wearisome road, and wind and rocks tried to bar our path. One of our companions died there, a western lad called Vorek Dore – and what a good lad he was! –, cast down into a crack by an avalanche of stone, but that only increased our determination. When we finally saw the mouth of the cave before us, a dark maw even on a bright day as that one, I must admit we hesitated for a moment… until the Guardians came. Strange creatures, vaguely humanoid, more like statues than like anything that lives and breathes, they arose from their niches by the entrance and came towards us. We knew that such things existed, of course, or at least that they _had_ existed a long time ago, but despite the mountain itself coming against us, it was the very last thing we had expected. Luckily there were only two of them, and the enchantment that gives them, for lack of a better expression, life had worn out over the centuries, so that they missed the speed and strength they had, no doubt, once possessed. We overcame them in the end, though we lost yet another companion." For a moment a shadow passed over Morcas's features at the memory. "It is said that the one true service you can offer a fallen hero is to remember his name, isn't it? He was called Anyush, or at least that's the simplified form of a complicated name from the distant shore of the Jade Sea. He should have become a great leader of men, and instead there's a lonely grave at the summit of Mount Dunhill now, that he may see the rising sun, as they say where he was born…"

Except for the gentle crackling of the fires, the forge was completely silent now. All eyes were on Morcas, but Morcas's eyes were on none. At last he sighed and shook his head, as if to push the memory of his lost friend back. "There were only three of us left when we stood before the entrance at last: Orvar, myself and Rendon Paric. Yes," he said as he saw the gazes some in the forge were throwing each other, "the very same Paric who has now thrown in his lot with Norgard. They were inseparable once, him and Orvar, before his ambition and avarice consumed him. He was with us on that day, just as he always was with Orvar, and he was the one who carried the torch as we stepped over the threshold into the darkness." He waited a moment, perhaps for those who had started whispering at the mention of Norgard to go quiet. "It was a strange path we took, leading downwards and winding, and soon we had lost all sense of direction. The very rock around us was strange, it seemed to crackle as if about to shoot sparks, and the further we went, the more it began to glow, yet had we doused the torch, I'm convinced we would have stood in darkness all the same. I have no idea for how long we walked thus, our estimations strongly differed, but at last we saw a pale glow around a bend, and as we turned the corner we were suddenly bathed in light, brighter than the glow would have suggested, and yet not truly blinding. The walls were practically vibrating then. Before us, on a pedestal of rock that was shaped like one of the heathen altars of old, a crystal rested, revolving gently. We approached it carefully, and it seemed to me that it was drawing me, that it was calling my name. Clearly it was one of the marvels of the Elder Days, of the wondrous creations able to bind ancient energies in themselves and to give as well as channel powers if one only knew how to use it, woken from a sleep that had lasted centuries and waiting to ensnare a wielder. Orvar was the first to approach it, with Rendon closely behind him, but when he was only a couple of steps away, the ground suddenly shook, throwing us off our feet, and there was a blinding flash of light. When we opened our eyes again, the crystal had stopped spinning and rested on the rock now, sparkling in the light of the torch and brighter than ever. We hesitated for a moment then, and Rendon said –"

"This would fetch quite a fortune."

At the sound of the new voice, everybody turned towards the entrance in surprise, and at once they huddled together more closely, panicked whispering arising, and several gripping various items that might be used as weapons in case of need. But of the group that had silently filed into the foremost part of Master Wenslow's forge, nobody moved. There were about a dozen men, all dressed in rough dark leather and girded with a sword, some with a strung bow over their shoulders or a small axe in a loop at their belts. What struck Valjean as odd at the first glance was that while they clearly were warriors, none of them wore their hair cropped short like Orvar and Morcas and most of the other veterans did. Instead they sported long, often unkempt manes; some wore their hair in braids or had ribbons woven into it. One dark-haired giant at the far left of the group even had one side of his head shaved down to short stubble while on the other long locks fell almost to his shoulder. He had seen such men before, just a short time ago, he realised as he automatically gripped Fantine's shoulder. _The men of_ _Norgard_.

"Fancy meeting you here, Morcas," the man at the front of the group stated, the same who had spoken before. His nearly shoulder-length fair hair was decorated with a couple of small beads that had been woven into it; Valjean thought he heard them click together very softly as the man moved his head. "And fancy hearing that old story again. What times those were, weren't they?" He laughed, and immediately the men behind him began to chuckle as well, mirthlessly and sycophantically, but he silenced them with an impatient wave of his hand. "Glory and riches, Morcas! Like in the days of old."

"It's been a long time, Rendon," Morcas said calmly. "You have changed, I see. Grown your hair, for a start."

There was a moment in which they remained motionless, in which Valjean's gaze flickered between those two that had been companions at arms once – how would they meet, as friends or as enemies? – but then, simultaneously, a smile appeared on both of their taut features, and immediately something in the atmosphere changed, as if the forge itself blew out a breath it had been holding.

They met in the middle of the low hall and shook hands like a pair of long-lost brothers. "Morcas, old boy," Paric cried, patting the other's shoulder with his left hand while still holding his right, then gave him a playful little slap on the back of his head. "After all those years, I find you here, in the middle of nowhere, ploughing fields and breeding pigs and the demons know what else."

"Now, now, don't forget this is not just any old village," Morcas replied a little reproachfully, though laughing. "And I'd make a very bad farmer indeed, you know that."

"Ah yes, of course. Proud old Rosendale. How could I possibly forget?" Was that a note of sarcasm that was stealing into Paric's voice? Valjean found that his grip on Fantine's shoulder had not loosened.

"Proud old Rosendale, yes," Morcas repeated. "After an honourable discharge, my allegiance still has not changed."

"I can see that." One of the corners of Paric's mouth twitched, but Valjean could not quite interpret what it meant. This man was hard to read altogether, his features as even as they could be. He would not have stood out in a crowd. His nose had been broken once, it seemed, but even that was not asymmetrical, just a very slight broadening on the back of his nose. A very clean break, just like everything about Paric was, from his gleaming black leather jerkin to his polished heavy boots, from his silky hair to the browband he wore, linked metal plates set on a broad strip of hard leather that encircled his head, an air not so much of neatness as of precision. It was a peculiar piece of armour, that browband, something Valjean had never heard of before, but then again, what did he know about armour?

Paric let his gaze wander over the assembled, who were watching him with often obvious unease, looking from him to the men by the entrance and back again, yet Paric ignored this fact. "Perhaps I should finish the tale Morcas began," he suddenly said, and Valjean was certain that he was by far not the only one who was surprised. "The ending is told quickly enough. We had a little argument there as to what to do with the pretty shiny thing. When Orvar tried to pick it up, the ground suddenly shook worse than ever, with rocks coming down from the ceilings and all that. Well, we ran for it. What else was there to do? Why risk your life for a sparkly little toy, Morcas, wasn't this what you said?"

"It had claimed enough lives already," Morcas answered stiffly.

"Yes, that's what you say now. Back then, it was glory or nothing. But where's the glory in ending up buried beneath a pile of rocks? We made it out into the sunlight at last and returned to our banners, after convincing the foolish locals that we had chased off all those fairies and demons of theirs. Earned us quite a few gifts, too." He grinned, briefly baring two rows of white teeth. "When we told of our adventures, a whole expedition went to Dunhill to find that strange treasure. They found the tunnel, and they found the cave, but it was gone. The marvel of Dunhill had disappeared, and yet we walked out empty-handed, didn't we?" For a moment Valjean thought to see a strange gleam in his bright eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

Apparently Morcas had spotted the same, for he seemed to hesitate, yet he was turning his back to Valjean, so his expression, which might have given some clarity, remained unreadable. "Yes," he said slowly, "strange indeed."

Once more one of the corners of Paric's mouth twitched in what might be a hint of a sarcastic grin. "What's become of Orvar?" he suddenly asked. "I should like to see the old boy again. You see," and now he truly grinned, a mirthless grimace that made Valjean shudder inwardly, "I have an offer he can't possibly refuse."

"What kind of offer would that be, coming from a man apparently in the service of Norgard?" Morcas spoke quietly, but firmly. "And what makes you so convinced he would accept it?"

Paric's eyebrows shifted together, and his mouth suddenly narrowed. Involuntarily Valjean's grip on Fantine's shoulder tightened slightly, but when he noticed that he had done so he quickly loosened it, uncomfortably meeting Fantine's gaze for a moment. "He wants the best for proud old Rosendale, doesn't he? In this case it would be wise to remember an old friendship." A new note had entered his voice now, a cruel, derisive one. "Or is he planning to become another Nardilon, or Galahir even?"

"What would that make you?" Morcas retorted coldly, not heeding the mercenaries, who were slowly moving forward now. "Not Golrath, for sure, since you couldn't interpret an old scroll to save your life. Grogarad, perhaps?"

Spoken in a different tone, it might have been just a taunt between old companions. But there was nothing to laugh about in this situation.

In Paric's even face, not a muscle twitched. "I'm afraid Golrath is already taken. And so might be Grogarad." And then his expression changed into one of the most horrible leers Valjean had ever seen. "Yet as for the worshipping, you might feel the urge to before too long if Orvar makes the wrong choices, and if you don't part with him. Wasn't that what he said in the tale? _Thou shalt worship Grogarad_?"

"_Dost thou not know who I am, mortal, to challenge the fiend of fiends?_" a shaky voice suddenly provided. "_Behold, I am Grogarad, and thou shalt worship me, along with the thralls of Norgard._" It was Yossi, the landlord's son. His freckles stood out clearer than ever in his pale face, and his chest was heaving under his brown linen shirt, and yet he spoke the words loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"See there, the lad knows his legends!" Paric threw back his head and laughed, and again some of his mercenaries chuckled along, but this time he did not silence them. "So, what have we here? Someone forging weapons without my permission?"

"Since when do we need your permission, Rendon?" Morcas asked calmly. The others had huddled together more closely, but he had not moved.

"I speak in the name of Norgard, Morcas." His voice had changed even more, to openly cold and threatening.

"So this is what has become of you." Even outnumbered, Morcas would stand his ground. "A thrall of Norgard."

"Don't _dare_ to call me thrall," Paric hissed. There was a mutter from his men, who were beginning to close in on the group, some with a hand on the sword hilt. Valjean felt his own breath quicken. What would Morcas do, fight them? One single unarmed man against a dozen? Of course, there were others present who might help him, six or seven, perhaps eight, but would they stand a chance against a group of trained warriors?

God, what to do? What to do? If there were just any way to sneak out and alert others… But there was one entrance only, and this entrance was barred by Paric's men.

Valjean's gaze flickered up to the beams of the ceiling. If there was a way of leaving through the roof… but no irregularity, no possible path of escape caught his eye.

_We're trapped._

Across the furnace, he could see the baker's daughter, her chin thrust forward and her hands clenched into fists, but shaking as a leaf in the wind. Wenslow stood thunderstruck, reaching for one of his devices, but his hand had frozen in midair.

"Who's in charge here?" Paric demanded. "No, not you, Morcas. I did not ask for an eager volunteer." He sneered, gazing around him. "Are you deaf, you blighters? Who's in charge?"

Still standing transfixed, Wenslow did not move. Valjean saw the blacksmith's wife's eyes widen with terror.

"Look," Paric barked, "if the man in question doesn't own up I'll take a woman, and a pretty one at that. Now, for the last time, _who's in charge?_"

"You're going to regret this, Rendon." Morcas spoke through gritted teeth, but it was obvious he had not been prepared for this

"I am." Valjean could feel all eyes upon him as he stepped forward, saw two of the apprentices stare at him in disbelief. "I am," he repeated, as firmly as he could, to eradicate all doubts. Behind him, Fantine gasped with horror, the sound quickly mingling with the gasps and whispers of surprise and fear of the others present. "I'm the blacksmith."

"Are you now? Good man." Paric's hand fell onto his shoulder heavily. "You're coming with us. And you lot, if you want your blacksmith back, send Orvar to negotiate. Until then he remains in my custody." Grabbing Valjean's collar, Paric pulled him towards the exit –

"Don't touch him!" It was more a shriek than a shout. By the still glowing furnace stood Yossi, his chin thrust forward defiantly, the half-forged sword raised in both hands.

"Rendon," Morcas tried once again, hastily stepping forth with an assuaging gesture at the lad, "if you'll just listen to me –"

"Ah, see there," Paric leered, not heeding him. "Someone with the guts to fight. But I'm afraid you're breakfast, kid."

"Put the sword down," someone hissed at Yossi. Valjean was unable to make out who it was, but the voice was clearly audible above the gasps and murmurs of the others.

Paric's grip on Valjean's collar did not loosen. Though it would not have been hard for him to break free, especially now Paric's attention was centred elsewhere, and though he doubted the mercenary's browband would have offered much protection if he picked him up and bashed his head against the wall a few times, he kept still. He would not use violence, not against anyone. And even though he could most likely take care of Paric, who knew how the other Norgarders would react? Besides, Wenslow was more important than he was. Rosendale could easily miss Jean Valjean, but it needed Master Wenslow. He only hoped the men of Norgard would not notice that the blacksmith was wearing an apron – a very clear giveaway of his profession – and he wasn't. Perhaps it had been his muscular build, not unusual in a blacksmith, that had made his ruse easily believable, at least to Paric and his men. His eyes found Fantine's, and with his gaze he sought to explain, but he felt that she would not understand, not even if he shouted it out loud.

_Please, try to understand. You don't need me. But Master Wenslow does. Rosendale does. Forgive me._

"Put the sword down," Morcas repeated out of the edge of his mouth. He was sweating; Valjean could see the beads glittering at his temples now, moistening his close-cropped hair.

"Yes, do it, kid," Paric agreed. "Morcas is a clever man, you had better listen to him. Never fight when you're outnumbered, live to fight another day. That's the very words they teach you in the King's Army, right, Morcas?"

"He's right," Morcas admitted through gritted teeth. "Put the sword down."

"No. I will fight you." Yossi's voice trembled just as his hands did; the swordpoint wavered, drawing ovals in the air. And yet he stood his ground.

Paric moved fast, too fast for Valjean to block his way. Like a striking serpent he charged, feinting a blow with one hand, and as Morcas stepped in to take it, he twirled around, and his booted foot connected with Yossi's wrist, making the lad cry out with surprise and pain. In a silver arc the sword sailed from his hand, over the heads of a two men, who ducked with a half-strangled shriek that was echoed by the assembled, and clattered to the ground harmlessly.

Clutching his right hand with his left, Yossi stared at Paric open-eyed, and so did Valjean. God, this fiend was fast, so fast he didn't even have time to react. And dangerous even when empty-handed; he had not even reached for his sword.

"Time to go," Paric said calmly. His breath had not quickened. Already Valjean felt Paric's henchmen roughly take him by the shoulders, but he did not turn; like a lamb he had meant to submit and bear the fate meant for Wenslow, whatever it held, but the feeling of saying goodbye to this place, to those he had come to hold dear… For a moment something stirred in him, the urge to point out the real blacksmith and go free, but he forced it down again and quenched the flame. He had made his choice. He would accept whatever God had in store for him, and he would not be afraid.

"The boy's coming with us," Paric added, like an afterthought, taking the arm of the unresisting Yossi. "He asked for it. Morcas, you know what to tell Orvar. It's up to him now. One word from him, and the boy and the blacksmith will return to their homes. Tell him to choose wisely."

Morcas's breath was ragged, his teeth clenched, his hands knotted into fists. There was nothing he could do, not alone and unarmed against all those servants of Norgard. All that was left to him was his defiance. "Orvar will never join you! Orvar will never sell his soul for a false boyhood dream of glory and riches!"

"Say what you will, Morcas." Paric gestured, and side by side Valjean and the landlord's son were marched out into the sunlight, a light so garish that it hurt their eyes.


	10. A little Fall of Rain

**10. A little Fall of Rain**

Smoke rose into the grey sky, curling wisps and misty shrouds fading gently as the wind carried them away. Stonesend was burning, bright tongues of flames licking up into the sky, specks of colour against the monotonous grey and green of the mountainside against which the village lay nestled, clearly visible from a third of a mile away, where Eponine crouched hidden amid the tangle of green near the crown of a young oak tree at the curving edge of the forest. She had seen the columns of riders and footsoldiers coming down the mountain road, and she had seen them entering Stonesend like a dark flood. The rebellion had been crushed, the tribute taken by force. Stonesend, not only the largest but also the richest village of the valley, was the one that suffered most under the reign of Norgard.

Close to Stonesend, the Hyavanda River came down from the mountains, a bright band where it passed the village, but soon disappearing into a deep gorge as it travelled eastwards, where the mountains rose to their sheerest height, to cascade down the Deep Falls, roaring and foaming, and then to bend to the southwest, around the last of the mountains in the range, the Weathercliff with its belt of fir-trees, where it would eventually form the border to Hyavand. When the wind blew from the south, Eponine sometimes thought to hear an echo of the water's voice as it crashed down over the Deep Falls. And high above, at the crown of the mountains, the fires of Norgard were bright as stars against the grey clouds. The gentle summer rain had not been able to extinguish them.

Just as it had not succeeded in forcing Eponine to seek shelter. The leaves offered protection from the worst, and those drops that hit her she simply ignored. She had not even unstrung the bow she carried over her shoulder to protect the waxed string from the moisture.

All the villages were in a similar situation. The henchmen of Norgard came to gather stored goods and cattle, and nobody knew what would be left by the end of the month, or how they were to survive the winter – if they lived to see even the beginning of it, that was. The watch on the roads connecting the villages was not as rigid as it had been the week before, but the way to Moorcastle was as tightly blocked as ever, and the bridge in the south that led to Hyavand had been destroyed. There was only one way out of the valley that had been left open, and this way led up into the mountains, into Norgard.

Eponine had roamed the whole valley, from Lowford in the east to Stonesend in the west, from Greengrove and small Vinyarden in the north to the wild forests of Rosendale in the south. She had seen them all and their plight. At first she had thought that none of them would surpass the fate of Lower Rosendale, but it seemed that Stonesend was suffering worse. A full quarter of the houses destroyed – now it would be much more –, a hundred dead – and the death toll was bound to rise –, a quarter of the cattle gone – and now even more. A pair of hunters had told her, and upon her return she would inform those who needed to know. Perhaps Orvar knew already, but then again, perhaps he did not.

The day before, when attempting to slip off towards Moorcastle, she had encountered one of Norgard's men, a stout brute clad in black and brown leather, lazy from a good meal and slow from drink. He had meant to apprehend her, but her hidden daggers had done their work. Did they miss him already, all those other guards out there? Had they maybe even found the body? She did not know; she had not gone back to the place where she had left him out of caution. One single drunkard she could deal with, but a whole patrol of trained warriors… It was like stealing the seal out of Orvar's very hand, and with Javert standing guard behind his chair.

At this thought she automatically gazed towards the mountains. Gavroche claimed Javert had gone to Norgard to kill the resurrected Sorcerer, but Eponine was far from convinced of this version. What had really become of her brother's protector she could not tell, all she knew was that his absence greatly grieved Gavroche. Part of the time the boy now lived with Sophia, part with the students, and more often than before he accompanied her on her frequent wanderings through the forest. There were enough people around him, and still it seemed to Eponine that he was lonelier than ever before. He was a capable lad, of course, and had proven his mettle quite a few times over the course of their lives in Paris. It was probably just some sort of passing phase, he would get over it soon enough. Not that Eponine would admit worrying over her brother's feelings, but then again, what did it matter if she did? It was not as if anybody asked her.

The rain was falling unceasingly, drop by drop, slowly turning the narrow path along the edge of the forest into a stretch of mud. Maybe the fires in Stonesend were burning lower, but those of Norgard were as bright as ever. The raindrops whispered in the leaves around her and rolled down along her bow and over her hair.

Cautiously Eponine withdrew further into the branches, where the rain hardly reached her anymore. Through a gap in the leaves she could still see the smoke above Stonesend. Huddling against the trunk with her back, she began to sing to herself softly.

"My father don't know me,  
My mother don't love me,  
And Death don't want me  
'Cause I'm too young…"


	11. Fallen so far

_Thanks to Dern for supplying lots of Valjean angst._

**11. Fallen so far**

It had begun to rain, at first gently, then more steadily. Soon the sky was steel grey, the clouds forming a solid blanket that extinguished the sun. With his arms wrapped around his knees, Valjean ignored the moisture dripping down on him through the iron bars as best as he could and studied his surroundings instead as he passed them. The cart with the prisoners trundled along slowly, the pair of stout horses pulling it moving without hurry. Paric was riding ahead with one of his leather-clad henchmen on either side, while the other mercenaries were surrounding the cart on their horses, alongside it and behind.

This was complicating things, of course. As was the cart with the iron cage built on top of it.

They were planning to take a hostage, Valjean thought grimly. They were planning for it all along! Because Paric knows Orvar well enough to think he will come to get me back.

Which makes a quick flight even more important.

Valjean's gaze flickered from the receding edge of the Rosendale forest to his left to the woods of Greengrove at his right. If he managed to flee now, the mercenaries would never find him again.

However, he could not just tear the cart in two. He had rattled the bars already, and it had been of no use; all it had earned him was a sharp poke with the blunt end of a lance.

And there still was the question of what he should do with Yossi, of course. He could not leave the lad at the mercy of Paric and his men, yet on the other hand Yossi would be nothing but an impediment for an escape attempt.

Lord, what am I to do?

He turned to look back, but there was no pursuit he could make out, none at all, only five leering men on horseback, most of them with teeth just as yellow as their mounts', following the cart.

What is Orvar going to do? Does he know already? Has anybody told him?

Where is he hiding at the moment, anyway? With Sophia?

And how comes nobody warned us of Paric's arrival? Have the men on guard been killed?

Shuddering, Valjean let his head sink down onto his knees. Why did a peaceful village have to fall victim to the horrors of war? Why did people have to die for just one man's ambition?

Whoever this one man might be. A sorcerer they had spoken of back at the forge, the Sorcerer of Norgard, but that was a legend, or wasn't it? A legend from a long time ago? Or was there some truth to it, after all?

"Yossi," Valjean whispered, and the boy lifted his tear-streaked face from his arms. "That Sorcerer you all spoke of – when exactly did he live?"

Even in his lying position, Yossi somehow managed to shrug. "Nobody knows. Perhaps Dolorin did, but Dolorin's dead, and so will we be."

"Don't talk like that. They need us alive." The question is, for how long? "Why did you try to fight Paric, anyway? It was brave of you, but you had better not done it, I can take good care of myself."

"It works like that in the stories," Yossi replied defiantly, his bright eyes meeting Valjean's gaze. "The young hero takes up the sword and fights the enemy. That's what it's supposed to be like."

Valjean sighed. This one was just as much a child as Gavroche. "In the stories, yes. In the stories a peasant boy takes on a hundred men."

"Galahir could have done it!" Yossi protested. "Galahir was a great hero, the greatest of all times!"

"Yes, but you're not Galahir, and neither am I." And besides, that's only what the stories say. Because in the stories everything has to end well, whereas in real life only God knows how it ends.

"You're making fun of me," Yossi said bitterly.

"I'm not. I'm just trying to keep you from doing anything of this kind again." Somehow Valjean doubted that the boy would listen. Brushing his moist hair out of his face, he wondered how to best cross the country once he managed to slip off. If he could steal a horse from one of the men… He had to get them to stop the cart and be very occupied with something, but how? And would he reach the forest fast enough, before one of them had the time to nock an arrow? Furthermore, he would have to abandon the horse and continue on foot once he had made it as far as the woods, because a horse would not be of much help amidst the trees. So, what to do?

"Nobody trusts me to do anything extraordinary," Yossi stated bleakly, staring into the empty air before him.

"It need not be done with a sword." Perhaps there was a way of yanking out one of the planks he was sitting on, but how should he distract all the mercenaries long enough?

"You don't understand! I want to do something brave and glorious, something people will remember me for!" Suddenly it seemed to Valjean that the lad's bright eyes were gleaming as if in fever – or was it only the glitter of tears? "I want to slay the villain and save the world!"

"Life never is as simple as that." Oh, curse that cart! Why couldn't they have brought another one, one with less massive bars?

"Why can't I play a role in this story?"

"Everybody plays a role in a story," Valjean answered, his eyes following a small swarm of crows that briefly whirled across the sky, then disappeared into the green crowns of the trees to his right. "It may not seem important to you, but you have your place in this world, and your part to play. You have your parents and your friends and lots of others to whom you matter."

"But you heard that man!" Yossi whispered hoarsely, his gaze flickering from side to side uneasily, but the mercenaries were not really watching them. "There's glory and riches in the world out there! Why should it be kept from me, only because everybody thinks I can't have it?"

Fool, three times fool! "Do not listen to a man like this Paric! You see where his ambition and avarice brought him!"

It came out sharper than intended, and Yossi swallowed and fell silent, but not without a gaze of helpless fury at Valjean. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve defiantly, he took to staring ahead, towards a cloud of smoke that seemed to be hovering above Stonesend.

And above the village at the foot of the mountains, high above, small points of light shone like a ring of stars crowning the place that was known as Norgard.

-.-

Later on Valjean could not tell how long it had taken for them to be brought past the burning village of Stonesend and up the steep mountain road to Norgard. It could not have been a long time or else the horses pulling the cart would have appeared more tired, but it had seemed to him just like the eternity spent on the wagon that had taken him to the galleys a long time ago.

Back then he had cried. Now his eyes remained dry, but his heart was not less heavy. For some reason, while he warily watched the mercenaries and studied his surroundings, the image of Fantine's goat trampling the flowerbeds repeatedly came to his mind – one small thing of many he would not be able to put right now.

At last they passed a gate hewn into the stone, flanked by quiet sentinels clad in black, and darkness swallowed them. Torches on the tunnel wall cast a ghostly light over the winding way. Was this the entrance to Norgard? Valjean shivered in his moist clothes. Was it the only way out, or were there others? And if there were, how would he find them?

He would. Come what may, he would.

Before them another gate swung open, and at once they were back under the sky. There was a parapet on one side, so that Valjean could not see the valley spread out far below, and on the other the mountain's flank rose up steeply, lines of windows and parapets interrupting its smoothness. As he craned his neck, he perceived a tower high above, sleek and steep, as if grown from the core of the mountain itself. Several walkways originated from it and led away towards other towers, as Valjean assumed, he could not see much more of the structure above since the rock wall was high and slightly overhanging. Was there a fortress above him? The fortress of Norgard?

As the cart trundled on along the paved road, he watched the men and the handful of women outside and wondered whether Norgard was a castle, as he had originally believed, or an actual city. Most men were clad in plain brown and busy carrying loads or driving laden carts, and some worked at the fence along the edge of the road. One was sitting on the parapet on the other side and apparently doing nothing, but judging from his ill-assorted attire of black and brown leather and the sword he was girded with, that one was another mercenary, and he and Paric greeted each other with a lazy salute as they passed. From an opening in the mountainside several men in green breeches and tunics emerged and hastened upwards without paying heed to the cart with the prisoners. Hardly anyone did, Valjean noticed. A green-clad woman raised her head briefly as one of the mercenaries cursed at the horses, but she returned to her occupation quickly enough. Valjean could not quite make out what she was doing, but it seemed to him that she was repainting a wooden gate that led into the mountain just like the tunnel opening from before. There were such gates at regular intervals, he noticed, most of them closed, but some were wide open, and brown-garbed workers carried sacks and rolled barrels in and out.

Storerooms, then. How useful to know.

The road curved upwards and through another tunnel. They passed an open space like a square, many small huts built along its sides. From its opposite side another road forked off and disappeared into a tunnel mouth bathed in the light of two massive torches. Here some of the mercenaries left Paric's train and heeled their horses into a loose trot, disappearing into the shadows. The rest chose the way that took them through a high arch of black stone that was carved with what appeared to be runes, along another curve of the road, with the valley becoming visible far below – wasn't this the forest of Rosendale, this distant patch of green? –, and then to another gate that suddenly loomed before them. Guards in mercenary costumes flanked it, three on either side, and raised their lances in salute to Paric, who answered with a curt nod of his head. There was a brief exchange between one of the guardsmen, a stout fellow with a face dark as ebony, and one of those accompanying the cart, then the rider saluted Paric and galloped ahead. "Mind you mention the purpose!" Paric called after him, then he clicked his fingers at another of his companions, who tugged at one of the horses' reins, and the cart moved on.

Valjean had thought the streets he had seen until then were busy already, but it was nothing compared to what awaited them now. Mercenaries in their usual leather attire, most carrying swords and daggers, hurried this way or that or stood together in small groups, watching those who passed by warily. Once again there were several of the men and women clad in green, all busy going about some chore. The dresses and tunics were seamed in yellow and embroidered with what looked like an ornate dragon's head on the chest, as Valjean now saw. Was this the symbol of Norgard? He considered asking Yossi for a moment, but the lad was crouching in the hindmost corner of the cage, his hands clenched around the bars, gazing out and demonstratively away from Valjean, his chin pushed out in defiance, his eyebrows lowered to what almost seemed a caricature of fury. Some of the mercenaries pointed at him and laughed, but he stared through them, a statue of quietly seething, helpless rage.

It's the dark seed of Paric's words, Valjean thought as he studied the youth's angry profile. It's already growing…

Lord above, Yossi, what am I to do with you? How do I get you out of here and back to your parents?

Past walls and bastions they were transported, past stone buildings and barracks, past lanes and crossings. Valjean did his best to keep their route in mind, and it was not particularly hard, because they were heading more or less straight ahead and slightly upwards. After some time they passed another post of guards and entered into a narrow gauge lined by high stone walls. At its beginning a huge fire burned on a stout pillar above them, hissing in the rain. Here Paric turned his tall steed and headed away, back into the city of stone that was Norgard, and Valjean saw how Yossi followed him with his eyes. Above the cluster of stone buildings climbing up the mountain that now lay behind them, the tower he had seen before had become visible now, a steep spire rising into the grey sky, and many more, connected to it by narrow walkways high above the ground. And above them, above parapet-crowned ramparts, rose the fortress of Norgard.

As their guards dragged them out of the cart and pushed them into separate cells built into the side of a low, narrow building, as the massive metal door slammed shut behind Valjean and he was left alone in the cold, damp darkness, the image still was visible against the inside of his eyelids: the walls and towers of Norgard, black against the empty sky.

-.-

Sitting with his back against the wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, Valjean at first attempted to count the passing minutes, but soon gave it up again. It was of no use. For now, there was no getting out of here – there were no windows, and the door was too strong to be lifted out of its hinges –; all he could do was wait.

If he managed to escape, which path should he choose? Back through that narrow road between the steep walls? No. It was too well guarded. Was there another way out? The low building that currently held him cowered against another wall, a high one that encircled something, whatever it might be, but maybe there was an escape route out if he chose to turn left, where naked rock rose up in nature's bizarre pattern. It would not be easy to climb there, but it was the only chance he had. Or perhaps the opposite way? He had not seen where that lead – theoretically down the mountainside, but a wall had hidden the valley from his sight. He assumed that he could climb that obstacle, but it was risky, not knowing what lay beyond. It might be a meadow as well as a deep chasm.

And moreover, there still remained the unsolved problem of how to save Yossi from Norgard's clutches. The foolish, foolish boy…There was something about him and his manner that made Valjean recall that other lad, Enjolras, although Valjean could not honestly say he knew either of them well. Enjolras was a natural-born leader, that much was obvious from the moment one set eyes on him. He also lacked the rashness more prominent in Yossi, even though he sometimes displayed something similar to it when it came to one of the subjects he was passionate about, but even then it was not something exactly like rashness. Perhaps it was his single-mindedness making itself known; the boy could go on ignoring everything else around him when he had his will set on a certain goal, or some aspect of his constant yearning for something more, his adherence to higher standards and ideals. But the Enjolras Yossi resembled in a way did not seem to be the one from the barricades, judging from what little Valjean had seen and learned of him. No, it was the distinct air about the boy as Valjean had met him in Rosendale, as he was now, after death – no matter how abstract and alien the concept might be and how difficult, maybe even impossible, in the end it was for Valjean to get used to the idea.

To be exact, everyone seemed changed somehow. It was to be expected in a way, but it still took a fair amount of getting used to. Some changes were far more subtle, and Valjean was often left wondering whether what he had just noted about someone in whose company he found himself was something previously unknown to him because he had not talked much to or even known the person well at all, or some new trait of character caused by the mystifying yet serene environment that was Rosendale.

Yes, but hardly serene, was it now? There had been something distinctly calming and comforting about the place even after the chaos and shock of the initial attack. At the moment, though… Perhaps, Valjean mused, it was his separation from all he had come to know in the short time he had been given that was causing the amount of turmoil he sensed growing within himself, even though he tried hard to ignore it. Perhaps if someone could somehow come at that very moment and take him back to Rosendale he would quickly put every unpleasantness behind him and find what joy was to be had in all those small things demanding his attention every day. The joy, he realised, was far greater than one would expect. The simplicity and soothing quality of tasks such as needed to be seen to around Fantine's household could work wonders on a man's peace of mind. Yet only now did Valjean fully realise this, and how much it had truly meant to him.

With a soft sigh, he shifted to try to find a more comfortable sitting position against the wall. The uneven stones were digging into his back painfully, and the dampness of the cramped space was unpleasant, to say the very least. Unpleasant, too, despite or perhaps even because of its calming and comforting effect in other surroundings, was the trail Valjean found his thoughts wandering down now, yet he could not keep himself from thinking of Fantine. What he had done in the smithy had certainly affected her; she had not been able to hide it, if she had tried to do so at all. Was she perhaps angry with him for acting as he had? Could she understand why he had felt compelled to take Master Wenslow's place? Maybe she even could, yes. Valjean had not met many people in his life for whom he could have said so, but had Fantine not sacrificed herself many times and in some of the most degrading ways possible, always putting the needs of her daughter above her own? Valjean hoped she would understand what he had done and why he had done it, without being unnecessarily saddened or worried, no matter how much he secretly enjoyed the realisation that there was someone, somewhere, concerned for his well-being and safety.

Maybe Fantine was even awaiting his return. It seemed an encouraging notion, but Valjean forced himself to focus on conserving his strength, in case an opportunity for escape presented itself. Fantine. The feeling the name recalled in this most unfriendly environment was not one Valjean could readily place. It evoked many things and, most of all, memories, but on the whole it was a matter as of yet unclear to him, completely impossible to define or explain. Was this what missing someone felt like? No, perhaps it would be best to describe it as fear of never seeing the person in question again. Why, he could only ask himself then, was it different than what he had felt when he had been imprisoned the first time, torn out of his surroundings and away from his family to be thrown into a completely alien and frightening world? Questions were simply all too eager to present themselves sometimes, especially in situations when Valjean had only himself to keep him company, and questions were not something he particularly enjoyed. Still, there was not much here to distract his attention, so a perfect opportunity for thinking everything over arose.

Had at that very moment some sort of deep rumbling sound warned him of the walls of the small cell beginning to shift and close in, Valjean would not have felt surprise. Knowing not what was to come, if anything was, he simply let his mind wander, hoping that perhaps by some stroke of improbably good fortune an idea worthy of a mastermind would come to him and a miraculous way of escape would make itself known. He had spent a lot of time musing, in situations not unlike the one he found himself in now. This time, though, the wanderings of his mind were somewhat different, and in many ways less grim than before. He found he did not feel the need for any thoughts of a bitter or hateful nature, and there was no one he could be angry at, no one to resent almost single-mindedly. Long ago, it seemed, he had readily aimed all his anger and his hate at the very concept of humanity, human society as it was. He might have, now, deliberately and carefully brought himself to hate the very name of Norgard, or convince himself that that Rendon Paric was the cause of all his troubles and worry, thus making him the target of every bit of anger Valjean could find in himself. While perhaps even not so long ago this would have been the reaction which would have come naturally to him, he simply could not bring himself to view matters as such now. Norgard was most certainly a synonym for evil, yes, there could be no doubt about that, and Paric was in every way a scoundrel and the very opposite of what could be called a decent man. But there was something different at work behind both, or so it seemed to Valjean, and he did not see it as his place to feel anger towards either. Disgust, yes, mistrust, of course, it came almost naturally, even, this he had to admit, a touch of what might be fear. But anger such as he had even taken pride in some time ago was not something Valjean associated with Norgard, or anything of this world at all. A part of his life best left behind, Valjean decided, shifting uncomfortably as a physical manifestation of the shame and even guilt he felt when recalling the strength of his emotions the night he discovered Cosette's letter to Marius...

The muffled sound of voices outside made him raise his head. At once he tensed, ready to leap up if any way of escape should suddenly open up to him. There were men outside once again, several men, at least three, and they were coming closer while speaking loudly, yet he could not make out the words…

It seemed to him that there was the sound of huge bars pushed back from nearby, though he could not say it with certainty. Was this where they kept Yossi? Had they come for the boy? Had they come for them both? Slowly he got to his feet, his thoughts seething and raging inside his head. Hide behind the door and push through once it's opened. No, cower in a corner and then slip past them when they can't see you. No, they'll have torches, you need to snatch one from them and – No, you'll be easier to find if you carry a torch. You might use it for a diversion, though, a diversion of any kind, no matter what…

It seemed that the voices were receding again. Valjean strained his ears, standing close to the door, but still he was unable to understand what was going on. The tension was beginning to leave his limbs again – not his turn yet, not yet – when suddenly he heard a distant scream of agony, long and drawn-out, and at last dying away, swallowed by the silence of the dark cell.

Yossi! Was that the landlord's boy's voice? Had they done anything to him?

And just then, the bars outside were shifted and the door swung open, and the light of the torches, glittering on two sword blades pointed at him, blinded his eyes. "You there," a man bellowed, a silhouette against the dimly lit corridor, "come out, move!"

Valjean blinked into the firelight, already looking for a gap that might open, a way of escape… But then his arms were grabbed from both side, and he felt cold, pointy metal pushed between his shoulder blades. "Watch that one!" someone warned at his left ear, and the grip on his right arm tightened. "Come on," a dark-faced man snarled at him, baring a set of teeth of which some glittered with gold. "Get going, you damn sluggard!"

As he was dragged out, he was surrounded by leather-clad men, five, no, six, no, rather seven, he could not quite count them, and they marched him down the narrow corridor surprisingly fast for such a huddle, with a tall, bald fellow carrying a torch leading the way, jingling a huge ring of keys at his belt. Keys? It briefly occurred to Valjean that he had been kept behind bars, not behind a lock, but the thought slipped away again as they pushed and dragged him around a corner and into a low room brightly lit by a roaring fire. Beside it and with his back to him cowered Yossi, whimpering and covering his face with his shirt that he held in his hands, his spine and ribs visible under the skin in sharp relief on his narrow back.

One of his captors called out a command Valjean did not quite understand, and one of the leather-clad men in the room reached for the handle of something that was kept on a rack in the fire –

And then Valjean knew what was coming. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he struggled against the mercenaries' grasp, for a moment succeeding in breaking free before yet more hands clenched around his arms and shoulders, an image turning up before his inner eye, a recollection he wanted to forget. He shook off another man, but then someone kicked him in the knee from behind and he fell over, with many hands holding him down. Two cursing men had taken each arm and were twisting him around so that he came to lie on his back, while another held a sword under his chin. One kicked at his side, waving for others to join them. "Get him out of his shirt!" a lean fellow barked, his scarred face appearing in Valjean's vision for a moment. At once he felt fingers clench into the cloth and beginning to pull at it, and once again boots dug into his ribs and curses sounded above him. "Lie still, you hound!" "Will you hold him down, damn you!" "Out of my way!" "Get the whip, you moron, get the whip!" "Curse you, you half-breed, stop fighting!" Momentarily his vision was darkened by the linen of his shirt, but then it was yanked away from him, and he perceived a narrow, impassive face above him. "Hold him tight," the man said, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, which gave him an expression of contempt. "Golrath's blessing, ain't that a beast."

Two strong men knelt on each of his arms now, and one sat on each leg. Valjean tried to move, but was unable to. The narrow-faced man approached, his bloodless lips twitching into a lopsided smile as he brought down an intricate pattern of brightly glowing metal on a long stick –

Valjean clenched his teeth and made no sound as the red-hot iron was pressed onto his skin. His breath caught at the feeling of the intense, burning heat on his chest, his fingernails boring into his own palms. The seconds elongated into eternity as he lay there helplessly, blinded by bright dots dancing before his eyes. At last the instrument was lifted again, and he gasped for breath. The pressure on his arms was released as well, but he was too dizzy to get up. Still little points of light filled the chamber, blurring the faces above him. His limbs felt heavy, and the left side of his chest throbbed with a pain that had hardly lessened. He thought to make out the strangely sweet stench of burned flesh mingling with the odours of smoke, sweat and mould filling the chamber. What now? Would they return him to his cell now and leave him there, like they had done when they had brought him to Brest and branded him with the letters standing for a lifetime of slavery?

A lifetime of slavery. He had believed that he had escaped his fate when he had come to Rosendale, but his sentence had caught up with him once more.

Someone kicked him in the shoulder, and he sat up, suppressing a groan. Slowly the room shifted back into focus, and the shiny dots faded away, leaving nothing but the pain. Looking down himself, he saw that the skin on the left side of his chest was raw and red, forming an ornate dragon's head seen from the side, about as large as his palm. The same symbol he had seen embroidered on the tunics and dresses of Norgard's green-clad servants, he recalled. The symbol of Norgard.

"Here goes the brute," one of the men above him jeered, and there was rough laughter that did not quite succeed in drowning out a long-drawn whimper from Yossi. "Back up you get!"

"Put them back into their cells," another voice commanded. "Let them get some rest for tomorrow. You, Snaruk, bring them a bowl of water each. Then get their names and add them to the list. Understood?"

"Aye," replied the narrow-faced man who had just branded them, turning on his heel and hurrying out. The others closed in on Valjean and Yossi, and Valjean felt himself being pulled up roughly. His legs carried him, though the dizziness still held sway over him and his knees felt weak.

One of the men tossed his shirt at him, and he automatically caught it and meant to pull it on again, yet the mercenary beside him slapped his hand. "You won't want to wear a shirt for some time, pal," he advised him in a strangely slurred accent. "Trust me to know that."

As the heavy door closed behind Valjean once more, he felt the small spark of hope he had harboured in his heart flicker and die, swallowed by the burning monster upon his chest.


End file.
